


Morituri te Salutant

by ras_elased



Category: SGA - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-24
Updated: 2007-03-24
Packaged: 2017-10-11 13:30:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/112922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ras_elased/pseuds/ras_elased





	1. Chapter 1

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Current mood:**

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bouncy  
  
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**Entry tags:**

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[fic: morituri te salutant](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/tag/fic%3A%20morituri%20te%20salutant), [genre: angst](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/tag/genre%3A%20angst), [genre: au](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/tag/genre%3A%20au), [genre: drama](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/tag/genre%3A%20drama), [genre: romance](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/tag/genre%3A%20romance), [genre: ust](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/tag/genre%3A%20ust), [pairing: mcshep](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/tag/pairing%3A%20mcshep), [rating: nc-17](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/tag/rating%3A%20nc-17)  
  
  
_   
**Fic: Morituri te Salutant (Part 1/5)**   
_

  
**Title**: Morituri te Salutant

  
**Author**: Ras Elased

  
**Rating**: NC-17 (probably PG-13 for this part, though)

  
**Pairing**: McShep, Sheppard/OMC  
**Warnings**: Bondage, slavery, non-SGA character death, mention of off screen SGA recurring character death, not-so-cuddly-animal death, lots of John-whumpage. Maybe some weird variation of Stockholm Syndrome thrown in for good measure.

  
**Summary**: _"John had been born a slave under Emperor Vespasian, and had spent most of his life building the __Amphitheatrum Flavium the Emporer had commissioned. It seemed ironic that now he was held prisoner inside the walls he'd helped construct, forced to fight for the amusement of the Roman citizens he hated so much."_  


John is a gladiator in Ancient Rome, and Rodney is a Roman Senator who falls in love with him after he sees him fight in the Colosseum.

[Author's notes and acknowledgements](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/6029.html#cutid2)   
[Helpful information about Roman culture](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/6029.html#cutid3)

Next parts are coming as soon as I get done with the corrections from my beta.

  


~#~

 

John sat in the corner of his cell, watching the torch flame flicker in the nonexistent breeze. Barefoot, he was clad only in a long linen tunic that hit him mid-thigh, more like a blanket draped over his shoulders with a crude hole cut out for his head, and tied with a rope at the waist. Lost in his own thoughts, he watched the shadows dance across the grey stone walls and waited.

 

John had been born a slave under Emperor Vespasian, and had spent most of his life building the _Amphitheatrum Flavium_ the Emporer had commissioned. It seemed ironic that now he was held prisoner inside the walls he'd helped construct, forced to fight for the amusement of the Roman citizens he hated so much.

 

John heard the loud metal clank of a lock, then the hinges of the antechamber door as it creaked open under the guard's ruddy palm, and he steeled himself for the inevitable. The routine had been the same every night for the past year. After a day of fighting in the games, the guards would bring down the latest noblewoman (or sometimes a rich man, usually a senator) who had paid for a night with him. It was against the law for the citizens of Rome to use gladiators for sex, but if you knew the right people or had enough money, well, the rules never really applied to those people.

 

The guards had learned quickly that they needed to restrain him, after that first visitor had drifted too close. He had her up against the wall of his cell before she even said a word, hand wrapped viciously around her throat and barely holding back from breaking her neck, feeling like an animal trapped in a corner, with no choice left but to fight. They had charged in and rescued the woman, and John was sure he would be put to death for attacking her. But to his surprise she was the one who came to his defense, stopping the guards from killing him on the spot. It was then that John had looked at her through the bars of his cell and noticed she had kind, sad eyes. And though John was the one who felt marginally guilty, it was the woman who tucked a brown curl behind her ear and said quietly, "I'm sorry."

 

That woman had never visited him again, but there had been others. He was chained to the wall before they were allowed to see him, his ankles and wrists held in place against the cool stone and metal, and a leather strap around his throat that restricted his movement even more, leaving him helpless. He wasn't stupid, he knew why they came, but as of yet he'd been able to fend off any advances with a single look.

 

He knew other gladiators who enjoyed the company of their occasional guests, if the sounds from their cells were any indication, but after years of servitude under a Roman whip, shuffled from master to master, John's hatred for the Romans was so strong he could taste it in his mouth every time he looked at them. They came to him with stars in their eyes, delighted for a night with a gladiator, but their excitement quickly turned to fear as they stumbled backwards from the blackness of his gaze. He was trained to kill, he _had_ killed men for no other reason than that the bloodthirsty roar of the crowd demanded it, that his own survival demanded it. His visitors saw that in his eyes when they looked at him. They rarely returned for a second night.

 

That was, however, until his latest visitor.

 

The first night the man had come to him, dressed in the purple-trimmed robes of a Senator, it had gone much like all of John's other encounters. The man hadn't even entered his cell, but he'd still looked stricken by the level of fury he'd seen in John's face, and had left without saying a single word. John had forgotten him before he was even out of sight, but the next night had taken him completely by surprise. The man came back.

 

Since then, the Senator had come to see him every night.

 

And now, John's nights were filled with the nonstop chatter of one-sided discussions. His refusal to speak had clearly frustrated the man, if his red-faced blustering was any indication, but John had never spoken since he first arrived at the Colosseum over a year ago. Eventually, the training masters had realized they couldn't beat words out of him, and John wasn't going to give up that small victory because of one whiny Senator.

 

Unsatisfied with John's silence in response to his awkward attempts at conversation, the Senator had filled those early nights with endless words, pacing up and down the length of John's cell, hands a flurry of motion as he told John his thoughts about everything from politics (bureaucracy was the cause of every revolution in history) to religion (idiotic sycophants!) to who was plotting to overthrow who (he'd seen another Senator with a lemon and feared for his life). Through his diatribes, John had learned a great deal about the man, including his name: Rodicus McKay, though his friends called him Rodney—the friends who weren't plotting to kill him and steal his seat in the Senate, anyway. The clearly foreign name had thrown John until he'd learned that Rodney came from a long line of nobles that had migrated to Rome from one of the Northern provinces. John surmised that Rodney's ancestors had simply turned traitor and joined the side of their conquerors, looking for power and wealth. He didn't put much effort into feeling sorry for Rodney when he casually mentioned the McKay family holdings weren't what they used to be.

 

He'd also gleaned that Rodney thought very little of his fellow politicians and even less of the latest Emperor, Trajan. Despite himself, John had nearly smiled when Rodney described him as "an absolute moron in every sense of the word, and a complete lush. He'd probably drink goat piss if you told him it was fermented! I give him two years before the first assassination attempt, tops." It would have been impossible for any man to talk about the _Emperor _of _Rome_ with such condescension and not raise himself a little in John's esteem. Still, John could see why Rodney had become a Senator. He clearly enjoyed the sound of his own voice.

 

After a month of visits filled with Rodney's incessant prattle and John's stoic silence, it had all changed. John had entered the Colosseum that day in his usual lazy gait, knowing his strength was disguised under the light armor and the casualness with which he held the sword by his side. Blocking out the roar of the crowd, he sized up his latest opponent from across the arena, a giant, exotic looking man with a long beard and a bald head. He carried a curved Pythian sword in one burly fist. John and his opponent saluted the Emperor, then the Senate, and John unconsciously scanned the faces he found there, a habit he'd picked up recently. As soon as he realized what he was doing, however, he jerked his focus back to his opponent. He stubbornly refused to admit he'd been looking for Rodney's face. He leaned heavily on his sword, his careless stance masking a body coiled so tight it felt like it was ready to snap. Then Trajan gave the signal to begin, and John's opponent was knocked backwards, surprised at the ferocity of John's first blow.

 

The fight raged on, John meeting his opponent blow for blow. Remembering his training from his first few months as a gladiator, John's motions carried with them a fearsome grace, quick and light and powerful all at once. The Pythian was good, better than many John had fought, and he felt his muscles strain and tire as he blinked beads of sweat from his eyes. The dust from the arena clung to the moisture on his skin, and the sunlight cut hard shadows into the ground with each flash of motion. The roar of the crowd died away, drowned out by the rattling clang of their blades and the pounding of John's heartbeat in his ears. John's motions became sluggish as the Pythian began to wear him down. He didn't move his shield in time, and the Pythian cut a fiery slice into the flesh of his thigh. John cried out as his knees buckled, dropping his shield and nearly his sword as he fell face first onto his hands, his panting breaths kicking up small clouds of dust from the ground.

 

It only took him a second to recover, then he saw the Pythian's shadow in the dust. The silhouette raised its sword in the air, and in one lightning fast movement John rolled out of the path of a strike aimed between his shoulder blades. He sprung to his feet facing his opponent, wincing slightly as he put weight on his wounded leg. Not giving the Pythian time to recover, John threw caution to the wind and lunged towards him, driving the blade between the ribs on his left side with expert precision. The Pythian's body fell to the ground, the blood flowing and mixing with the dry dust in the way John had witnessed too many times to count. Too weak to stand, he collapsed to his knees in the sticky blood-mud, feeling it cake his palms and knowing he'd never be able to get it out from underneath his fingernails.

 

It wasn't until moments later that he realized how hazardous it had been to leave himself unprotected during the attack. Stung by a dull pain in his side that he hadn't noticed before, John looked down to see his own blood spilling onto the ground. The Pythian had gotten lucky just before John's fatal strike, and the curved blade had cut a broad swath from his armpit to his navel. The last thing he heard before he passed out was the deafening roar of the mob.

 

If John had thought he'd get a night of Rodney-free peace due to his injuries, he was sadly mistaken. When John had heard the familiar clink of keys in a lock, he groaned from his prone position on his straw mattress. John was not in the mood to play audience to the grand theatre of Rodney McKay.

 

He had offered only a few token protests as the guards lifted his body and gingerly placed him in the restraints, mindful of his injuries. _After all, can't damage the merchandise_, John thought bitterly. When he was secure, the guards opened the antechamber door and Rodney stormed past them without so much as a glance, furious gaze locked on John. "What were you thinking? Are you _completely_ _suicidal_?"

 

John resisted the urge to tell Rodney the odds of a suicidal gladiator surviving this long. "God, you look awful," Rodney said, stepping close to examine his face. John knew he probably looked pallid and frail, but he still managed to level Rodney with a tired glare. Then he sucked in a tiny breath at what he saw in those crystal blue eyes. He was reminded of his first visitor, of the caring look in her eyes, and John wondered how he had missed this. He continued to watch Rodney, as if seeing him for the first time, trying to find what else he had overlooked. "Are you all right? Should you even be standing?" Rodney was oblivious to John searching his face, like all the questions John suddenly had could be answered by examining the thoughtful downturn of Rodney's mouth, the way the corners of his eyes tightened in concentration.

 

Rodney leaned in, gently pulling the front flap of John's tunic slightly to one side to examine his wounds, and John consciously fought the urge to tense up. It had been a year since anyone had dared get this close to him outside of the arena, and Rodney was so close John could smell the scented oils used in the bath houses. Unbidden, John's mind flashed him an image of Rodney in one of the heated pools, curls of steam rising around his hot, flushed, _naked_ skin, and John slammed his eyes shut, shoving the image violently from his mind. Then he felt soft fingertips dance along his ribs, tracing the edge of his bandage, and he sucked in a harsh breath at the sensation. Rodney's gentle, light touch was like a soothing balm over his bare skin, diminishing the knife-like pain in his side. He'd forgotten how it felt to be touched this way.

 

Rodney drew back sharply with a muttered apology, thankfully mistaking John's reaction as a sharp spike of pain rather than pleasure. "Right, sorry, just…checking," he mumbled, fidgeting slightly, still looking at John's face like he expected him to drop at any moment. "God, I thought you were…you weren't moving, and…" Rodney made a hastily aborted motion towards John, who refused to meet his gaze. They stayed that way for a while, until John felt his limbs begin to shake with the strain of holding himself upright. "Right, well…It's good to see you're okay." After an eternally long moment, Rodney silently exited John's cell. When John heard the antechamber door open and close, he gave in to the exhaustion and allowed himself to collapse against the wall, only supporting his weight enough that he didn't choke himself on the leather strap around his throat. Once the guards came in to unlock the restraints, John allowed himself to slip into unconsciousness.

 

Rodney didn't come to see John the next night. At first, John thought nothing of it. He'd learned Rodney's patterns by now, and sometimes he got wrapped up in work and showed up late into the evening, but he'd never missed a night in the past month. As the hours drifted on and John watched the stars creep past his tiny window, he felt his shoulders slowly tighten to the point of pain. He wavered between coming up with plausible excuses and wanting to beat his head against the wall for even giving a damn in the first place.

 

Looking back, John tried to figure out why his feelings for Rodney had started to change. Maybe it was because Rodney kept coming back night after night, until it was something John had come to rely upon. It was familiar and comforting and—despite how badly John wanted to deny it—he felt safe with Rodney. Maybe it was because Rodney had never treated him like a slave. If anything, the way he talked made it seem like he wanted to impress John, and when was the last time anyone had valued the opinion of a slave? Or maybe it was because John had started to believe that Rodney actually cared about him. At least, he'd thought so.

 

By the time the stars began to fade into the gold-red haze of the early morning sky, John had invented a plethora of possible reasons he'd spent the night alone, most of them vilifying Rodney: He had realized that John's injury prevented any strenuous activity, so he'd decided there was no point in wasting money to visit John if there was no possibility of the sex he'd wanted since their first meeting...He had realized John was never going to willingly have sex with him anyways, so he'd found someone else more receptive to the idea…The financial strain of his expensive nightly visits had become too much, and he couldn't afford to see John anymore…He had just lost interest.

 

For the most part, John's slew of rationalizations was comforting. They kept the focus squarely on Rodney and off of how his absence made John's cell seem just a little smaller. But one possibility made John's heart beat in fear stronger than anything he'd ever felt in the arena, and that was the thought that Rodney had been assassinated. When Rodney had mentioned that he held a prominent seat in the Senate, John had at first dismissed it as more of his overblown arrogance, and chalked up the mention of plots to steal his position as typical paranoia. Now, John wondered if it could be true, and he pictured Rodney lying face down in a pool of blood, a dagger plunged into his back, the hilt glinting in the red light of dawn. The image sent panic rising thick and sharp in his chest.

 

By the time the guards brought him his midday meal, John was very close to breaking his personal vow of silence if it meant he just could ask what had happened to Rodney. John barely touched his food, which the surgeon chided him over, telling him he needed to keep up his strength. He changed John's bandages, pouring honey and herbs over the long line of stitches to ward off infection. With one last admonishment to rest, John was left alone, staring at the tiny patch of bright blue sky he could see through the window and trying not to think about how the color made him ache. 

 

John was very close to falling asleep when he heard the lock slide open on the antechamber door. He sat up abruptly, immediately regretting it as fire erupted in the torn muscles of his side and stomach. Biting back a groan, he gingerly got to his feet and stood in the middle of his cell, waiting.

 

When the guards rounded the corner and John saw Rodney following behind, he felt a pang of relief rip through his chest, followed quickly by a flash of hot fury that threatened to burn him from the inside out. He wasn't sure if it was directed at Rodney or himself.

 

He offered only halfhearted resistance when the guards guided him back to his restraints, keeping his eyes locked on Rodney the entire time, his jaw clenched so tight it felt like his teeth would crack. Rodney stared back, unnaturally still, like the weight of John's broken-glass stare was holding him in place. The guards withdrew, and the antechamber door slammed shut with a resounding clang that echoed off the stone walls. The silence that followed was broken only by the sound of John breathing harshly through nostrils flared in anger.

 

Rodney didn't let the silence stretch for very long. It wasn't within his power. "So, I uh…I'm sorry I never came to see you yesterday. I was—I had some business I needed to take care of."

 

John's mouth set into a thin, tight line as he tried to calm his breathing. With some effort, he wrenched his gaze away from Rodney's, absently noting the long cut along his forearm. Rodney's excuse rang hollow in John's chest, but that didn't matter. He hated the fact that this man, this _Roman_, had somehow wormed his way under John's skin and made him care whether he lived or died. He clenched his fists, white knuckled at his sides, because he couldn't reach out and touch. But in the end, a Roman was still a Roman, so John schooled his features and pretended he didn't hate Rodney and himself in equal measure. The rest of that night had passed in silence, as had the nights following it, stretching for a week up until this night.

 

The rattling of keys was right on time. The guards filed in through the antechamber door, the now familiar form of his visitor trailing behind, visible through the wall of bars in John's cell. The guards opened his cell door, beefy hands forcing his wrists and feet into the restraints. John struggled, but after a year, he mostly just did it on principal, not out of any real expectation to get free.

 

Once the guards had left through the antechamber door, heavy locks clanging into place, Rodney made his usual cursory greeting, but John remained tight-lipped as always. He settled onto a small stool across from John, pressed up against the opposite wall of the cell. Giving John a look that said, "Right, of course, why should I have expected anything different?" he took out a few small sheets of parchment and apparently prepared to spend the night in silence.

 

The only sound in the cell was Rodney scribbling notes onto his tattered sheets of parchment, the same ones he had every night. The one time John had hazarded a glimpse he was surprised to find what looked like long strings of numbers.

 

John was furious with himself to discover he longed for the early days when his visitor had babbled incessantly for hours on end. Funny how despite all the arrogance and sarcasm that radiated from that grating, annoying whine, John found he now missed it. He hadn't realized how accustomed he'd grown to the sound of Rodney droning on about the latest political miracle he'd wrangled out of the Senate, bragging about using his brain and his words as his weapons, which hit their targets much more precisely than swords and arrows.

 

The scratching stopped, but Rodney didn't look up from his papers. "I won't be coming back tomorrow." John didn't move. "Or the night after that. Actually, I don't know when I'm coming back. I have…there are some things I need to do. I'm going to the country. I can't—" Rodney's eyes flicked up to meet John's and he stopped. John held his breath and stood absolutely still. Even the brief clink of his chains would seem deafening in the silence. He was sure Rodney could hear his heart beating a frantic, angry rhythm from across the cell. "I _am_ coming back," Rodney said, voice solid and reassuring.

 

John fought the urge to snort. That was exactly the problem. Each time Rodney walked through those doors, John sank a little bit deeper. Maybe if Rodney stopped coming to visit, John could forget the way Rodney looked at him, how he made it a little harder to hate him each time their eyes met. Maybe in time John could pull himself back together, because when Rodney looked at him like that, even surrounded by walls he felt unprotected.

 

Rodney stood, sighing as he made his way to the cell door. Before he could stop himself, John asked, "Why?" The sound of his voice stopped them both cold. John barely recognized his own voice as it broke over the word, like his vocal chords had atrophied from over a year's disuse. He realized there was no point in pretending he hadn't spoken, so he cleared his throat and tried again. "Why do you keep coming back?" he asked, voice still rough but somehow clearer this time. He was surprised by how strong it made him feel.

 

Rodney hadn't moved, so John continued to address his back. "You can waste your money coming back every night for the rest of my life, I'll never give in willingly."

 

Rodney didn't turn, not at first. After a moment, he twisted to fix John with an odd look in his icy blue eyes. If John didn't know better, he'd say it was a look of fierce anger, but it had been so long since anyone but another gladiator had looked at him that way. "What's your name?"

 

John blinked. "What?"

 

Rodney snapped his fingers impatiently. "Your name. Do you even have one? Because I've been trying to find out for months now, and apparently it's one of the great mysteries of life, like 'Why are we here?' and 'Why am I constantly surrounded by idiots?' because _nobody_ seems to know the answer. So now that you've magically acquired the gift of conversation, I figure I'll take advantage and get some information out of you." He crossed his arms and leveled John with another icy gaze. "So, what's your name?"

 

He clenched his jaw, but answered anyway. "John."

 

"John," Rodney repeated, as if testing how the word felt in his mouth. "Is that what you want, John?" he asked. Angrily, he stalked towards John, pressing into his space more than anyone had dared in a long time, and John made a conscious effort not to pull at his restraints. Rodney refused to even blink, and John felt something hot and liquid coil in his belly at the proximity. "Would that make you happy, if I satisfied whatever delusional image you've created in your head? Just took what I want, moral consequences be damned?"

 

John concentrated on not feeling how the heat from Rodney's too-close body contrasted with the cool stone at his back. "Isn't that what Romans do best?" he asked, his tone deceptively light.

 

Something sharp blazed in Rodney's eyes, and when he spoke it was in a low voice. "Sorry to disappoint you, but I'm not like most Romans." With that, he turned and stormed out of the cell, leaving John feeling suddenly cold. He was glad the guards took their sweet time before coming to release him from his restraints, since it gave him time to recover from the flash of arousal he'd felt under the intensity of Rodney's gaze.

 

Dealing with the fact that Rodney had that effect on him in the first place, however, would take more time.

 

~#~

 

  
[Part 2](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/6591.html#cutid1)


	2. Morituri te Salutant (2/5)

  
  
  
  
  


**Entry tags:**

| 

  
[fic: morituri te salutant](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/tag/fic%3A%20morituri%20te%20salutant), [genre: angst](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/tag/genre%3A%20angst), [genre: au](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/tag/genre%3A%20au), [genre: drama](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/tag/genre%3A%20drama), [genre: romance](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/tag/genre%3A%20romance), [pairing: mcshep](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/tag/pairing%3A%20mcshep), [rating: nc-17](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/tag/rating%3A%20nc-17)  
  
  
---|---  
  
_   
**Morituri te Salutant (2/5)**   
_

  
**Title**: Morituri te Salutant

  
**Author**: Ras Elased

  
**Rating**: NC-17   
**Pairing**: McShep, Sheppard/OMC  
**Warnings**: Bondage, slavery, non-SGA character death, mention of off screen SGA recurring character death, not-so-cuddly-animal death, lots of John-whumpage. Maybe some weird variation of Stockholm Syndrome thrown in for good measure.

  
**Summary**: _"John had been born a slave under Emperor Vespasian, and had spent most of his life building the __Amphitheatrum Flavium the Emporer had commissioned. It seemed ironic that now he was held prisoner inside the walls he'd helped construct, forced to fight for the amusement of the Roman citizens he hated so much."_  


John is a gladiator in Ancient Rome, and Rodney is a Roman Senator who falls in love with him after he sees him fight in the Colosseum.

[Author's notes and acknowledgements](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/6029.html#cutid2)   
[Helpful information about Roman culture](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/6029.html#cutid3)

[Part 1](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/6240.html#cutid1)

  


 

_John carried the bushel of wheat on his shoulder, the smell of sweat and dust and freshly cut stalks wafting in from the field. He wiped a hand over the droplets of perspiration that tickled his bare chest, a gust of hot air doing nothing to cool his exposed skin. It was the thick of the summer harvest and John had been working hard for most of the day, finally deciding that the need for a cold drink of water was greater than meeting his master's quota for the day._

 

_As John came in from the fields he spotted a familiar figure dozing in the shade of a fig tree. Groaning, John shook his head. One of these days the labor master was going to catch Damien asleep in the fields, and John didn't want to think about the trouble he'd be in. Matthias was a high ranking slave, and wasn't known for taking it easy with the whip. When he reached Damien's side John dropped his bushel with a heavy thud and gave him a light kick in the ribs. Damien groaned, but didn't stir. "'M sleeping," he mumbled._

 

_John rolled his eyes and settled down to lie facing him, propping himself up on one elbow. "I can see that," he said, brushing a short, stray curl from Damien's forehead, who still feigned sleep. John took the chance to study him, blond hair and golden skin blending in with the surrounding wheat, and John wondered not for the first time how he'd ever found anything so beautiful. _

 

_With a sleepy sigh, Damien threaded his fingers through the dark hair on John's belly, muttering, "Aren't you hot in all that fur?"_

 

  
_John let out a chuckle that had his stomach dancing against Damien's fingers, and he skimmed his free hand from Damien's slender wrist to his shoulder. "Hey, at least you can tell that I actually _have_ chest hair," he replied, grinning as he let his fingers continue their path from Damien's shoulder to the light patch of blond hair over his sternum. Damien hooked one ankle over John's and gave up feigning sleep to shoot him a green eyed pout, but John just smiled and settled a hand on Damien's hip, leaning down for a soft kiss. _  


 

_He sucked gently on Damien's bottom lip, grazing it with the tip of his tongue. With a soft whimper, Damien parted his slack lips and John slipped his tongue inside, teasingly light. The kiss was slow and languid, making John's skin buzz like the insects that filled the summer air. Moaning quietly, he rolled his body on top of Damien's, keeping most of his weight on his elbows as they pressed together, chest to chest. Damien ran his hands over John's back, slick with sweat, and John could feel the feather-light touch of fingertips tracing over the smattering of lash marks he'd acquired over the years. He remembered fondly how the first time they'd made love, Damien had planted a soft kiss on each scar as he pushed gently inside, breaking John apart and holding him together at the same time. After a lifetime of chalk on his feet, being told his life wasn't worth the selling price, John had started to believe it himself, until he met Damien._

 

_He felt a hand slide under the tunic he had tied around his waist, fingers teasing the cleft of his ass, and he sucked in a sharp breath through his nose. Instantly, John's kisses went from light and tender to passionate and bruising. Somehow they managed to remove the tunics from around their waists and then there was nothing but skin on skin, sweat slick and wonderful. John lined up their cocks side by side, and Damien wrapped his hand around both their lengths, stroking too slow and gentle. John's hand twined around Damien's wrist, guiding their tempo, and soon they were both coming, wet, sticky fluid between their stomachs. John half collapsed into Damien's neck, smiling and panting into the tanned skin, and dazedly stroked one thumb over the back of the wrist he still held loosely in his fingers. Suddenly, the skin under his lips turned pale and cold, and the wrist in his hand was ripped open and bloody. John heard a whip crack like a clap of thunder right next to his ear._

 

With a start, he jolted awake. It took him nearly half a minute of staring at one blank, grey wall to remember where he was, and another half a minute after that to remember why. With a soul-deep ache in his chest, John curled up on his straw pallet. It had been months since he'd dreamed about Damien, but every time he did he felt like he wanted to claw open his chest and rip his own heart out, just to stop the pain. John was reminded of a question Rodney had asked him, back when he thought he might get an answer. He'd asked, "Why do you fight like that? Like it doesn't matter?"

 

John had thought to himself, _Maybe because it doesn't_.

 

As his mind drifted to Rodney, John felt cold rage nudging aside the pain. It had been four days since he'd last seen Rodney, and it was eating him up inside. John hated not knowing if Rodney was ever coming back, and even worse, John wasn't sure which option he was hoping for more.

 

The sound of a key in the lock of the antechamber door meant it was either time for his morning or midday meal, depending on when he'd awoken. A quick look out the window to check the angle of the daylight would have easily told him what time of day it was, but he didn't dare. The blue sky reminded him too much of Rodney's eyes.

 

John stayed curled up on his pallet, his back turned to the cell door, listening to the guards approach. When they hauled him up into the restraints he had a brief moment when his breath nearly caught in his chest in excitement, but then they allowed his visitor to approach and John felt his entire body go so rigid the skin around his wound pulled slightly. It wasn't Rodney, it was a woman. The same woman he'd attacked a year ago. He'd recognize those sad eyes anywhere.

 

She was dressed in a long crimson tunic with a gold sash, and she carried herself with the regal grace of Athena herself. He tried to remember if she'd always had the warm glow of compassion he saw now in her face, but so much about that period of his life was a haze of memory. She nodded to dismiss the guard, and they hesitated a moment before they complied. John felt a moment of grudging respect at that. There was another man with her, tall and looming, with long dreadlocked hair. He had a large serrated knife tucked into his belt. He didn't leave with the guards, and the woman had to give him a sharp look before he grudgingly left her alone.

 

Warily, she approached the cell. "John?" she asked, voice hesitant but carrying a bell-like quality that somehow eased a little of the tension from his frame. "John, I'm not here for the reason you think," she assured.

 

He blinked, and something essential clicked into place. Although John had thus far only spoken to Rodney, he was surprised by how easy it was to speak to this woman. Besides, he felt he owed her that much. "How do you know my name?"

 

She smiled then, a smile that on anyone else would have looked indulgent but on her just looked kind. "Rodney told me," she said, and this time John's breath really did catch. "He asked me to come see you. He…" She paused then, as if considering her words carefully. "He has a project he's dealing with at the moment, but he wanted me to check on you. How are you doing?" She asked the last part with such concern John had to laugh.

 

"Well," he began in conversational tone. "I'm chained to the wall of a cell with half my body stitched back together. How do you think I am?" he asked, the eye roll evident in his tone.

 

The corner of her mouth twitched upwards in a wry smile, but when she spoke her tone was sincere. "I think you look good. Much better than the last time we met," she added mildly.

 

John could imagine how he must have looked then, wild-eyed and desperate, silently longing for death but too angry and stubborn to give in to it. "Yeah, well, you didn't exactly catch me at my best."

 

The sad look intensified in her eyes. "I _am_ sorry about that," she said quietly. John found himself inexplicably warming to her presence, realizing he had probably felt that way since their first meeting, when she had looked at him and he's seen a little of his pain reflected back in her eyes. After a pause, she said, "My name's Elizabeth. I'm a friend of Rodney's…Well, what Rodney considers a friend. We work together."

 

John's eyes went wide. "They let women in the Senate now?"

 

Elizabeth frowned. "No, sadly. He and my husband were friends in the Senate. One of our goals was to put an end to the games, but then Radek died about a year ago, and now…now it's just Rodney and I."

 

John nodded, the pain of loss hanging like a shadow in the room. "So, when you came to see me…"

 

She gave him a weak, sympathetic smile. "I come to visit all the gladiators as often as possible, offer what little comfort I can. Food, clothing…someone to listen," she added meaningfully. There was a long, expectant pause while John debated with himself over asking the question he really wanted to ask, but Elizabeth seemed to sense what he wanted to know and took pity on him. "Rodney's fine, by the way." She crossed her arms and looked thoughtful, as if she were choosing her words again. "He's just…busy."

 

John snorted derisively.

 

There was a long pause, then Elizabeth settled herself onto the small stool and began conversationally, "Did Rodney ever tell you why he came to see you that first time?" John shook his head. "Really? That surprises me. He's normally very…forthcoming."

 

"That's one way of putting it," John tried to stifle an eye-roll at her choice of words.

 

Elizabeth grinned, then said fondly, "It's one of the reasons he's so popular among the people. They appreciate his lack of Sophistry." She paused, and her smile faltered before she continued with the story she was apparently determined to tell. "Rodney never understood why I wouldn't let the guards kill you, after..." John's jaw clenched in guilt. It was something he'd always wondered himself, but he didn't dare ask. "He was so angry he gave up on our fight to end the games. It wasn't until several months later that I was able to drag him back into the Colosseum, to remind him of what we were fighting for. He hated every minute of it, but then he saw you fight." She met his eyes and he saw an amused sparkle there. "After that, it was rather hard to pull him away."

 

John frowned, confused. "But…didn't you just say he hated me?"

 

Elizabeth looked down at her hands for a second, then said, "He never knew you were the one who…attacked me." She stumbled over the words, frowning. "A little over a month ago was the one-year anniversary of Radek's death, and I…I'm afraid I didn't take it very well. I was a mess, actually," she confided ruefully. "I let it slip that you were the one who…" She rubbed her fingers along the knuckle of her other hand. "Well, as you can imagine, he was upset."

 

John sighed, filling in the rest. "So he yelled at you for not telling him, and he came to see me so he could…what, give me a verbal flaying?"

 

Elizabeth smirked. "He could, you know." John had to agree. He had no doubt Rodney could reduce the Emperor himself to a sobbing puddle of mush inside ten minutes.

 

"Yeah," John nodded, remembering how during their first meeting Rodney had stopped and just stared at him for a long moment, then turned and walked away, head drooping and shoulders hunched. "So why didn't he?" John muttered, half to himself.

 

She studied him, then said, "He told me the next day that he understood why I'd forgiven you for what you did. He never said anything more, but I like to imagine it was because he saw what I did." She looked at him, and her eyes held strength and conviction. "You're a good man, John. You're just lost."

 

John would have laughed at the triteness of her statement, but it somehow felt right. As he struggled to let her words sink in, he asked in a tired voice, "Why are you telling me this?"

 

"Because I think you need to know. And because Rodney would never tell you himself."

 

John fisted his hands and tried to keep the hopefulness out of his voice. "He's not coming back, is he?" he said with finality.

 

"He wants to, John, he's just…It's too dangerous."

 

John's head snapped up and he opened his mouth to object, but the words died in his throat. Could he really say that Rodney was safe with him to the woman he'd once held choking up against the wall, and not have it come out sounding like a lie?

 

Still, Elizabeth's eyes went wide and she held a hand out to him placatingly. "No, John, it's not you we're worried about. It's—"

 

She stopped herself before she could finish the thought, but John's mind was already putting the events of the last few weeks together. The cut on Rodney's arm, the sudden trip out of town for reasons unknown. John felt something cold settle in his gut. "Someone's trying to kill him." Her silent frown was all the confirmation he needed. "Who?"

 

"John, I'm not supposed to—" she began.

 

"_Who?_" he repeated, low and dangerous, his tone startling himself as much as it did her.

 

Elizabeth crossed her arms and faced him, expression stern. "We think it's General Kolya." She sighed in frustration. "He's next in line for Rodney's position."

 

John clenched his jaw, making the muscles in his cheek twitch. "What's he done?"

 

Elizabeth pursed her lips and gave John a considering look, then shook her head in resignation, correctly assuming he wasn't about to let it drop. "It started several months ago. Someone sent a sack of poisoned wine to his home. Rodney thought it was a bribe, so he gave it to his servants as a gift." Elizabeth paused, then continued quietly. "He's never fully forgiven himself for that."

 

John closed his eyes and heaved a sigh. "And the cut on his arm?"

 

Something flashed in Elizabeth's eyes, and John assumed she was reliving the recent memory. "He was on his way to see you, and he was attacked. He managed to get away, and he hired bodyguards afterwards, but…I got sick of watching him pretend not to check around corners everywhere he went. He's convinced it's not safe for either of us right now. He even hired Ronon to watch after me," she added, and John assumed she meant the looming man with the knife from earlier. "I couldn't stand to see him like that. I told him to get out of the city for a while, to go visit his sister for a few days. He made the usual protests about his work and his duty to Rome, but I don't think that's what he was really worried about." She gave him a knowing look, and John had to avert his eyes. "The good news is that Radek left me with enough money to bribe a few of the Roman officials and get an investigation underway, but—"

 

"Even if they get proof it's Kolya, they can't touch him," John finished for her.

 

She frowned, then nodded. "We're hoping to gather enough evidence to destroy his political career. At least then, maybe he'll leave Rodney alone."

 

"It won't be enough."

 

"Well what do you suggest?" Elizabeth snapped in frustration.

 

"Kill him first," he replied with no hesitation.

 

Elizabeth gaped at him for a long second, and John's steady gaze never wavered. Eventually, she looked away. John knew at that moment he'd frightened her more than when he'd been the lost, desperate man who'd shoved her up against a wall. Now she was looking into the eyes of a man who had killed in cold blood. He'd done it before in the arena, and he had no qualms about doing it for Rodney.

 

"Rodney's returning to the city today," she said, effectively changing the subject. John had to admire the fact that there was almost no discernible tremor in her voice.

 

"Keep him away from me," John said, his voice a command. "Like you said, it's too dangerous."

 

Elizabeth gave him a long, searching look, then nodded. "I'll do what I can."

 

She stood then, her sandals crunching softly on the dirt floor of the cell as she walked away. After she had left, John was uncharacteristically restless. He paced the length of his cell, feeling more helpless than when he was locked in shackles against the wall, because somewhere out there Rodney was walking around with a target painted on his back, and John could do _nothing_.

 

It was several hours later when the guards came to put him in his restraints. He felt his chest flare in anger, and he cursed Rodney in his head. Didn't he realize what a risk he was taking coming here?

 

Rodney entered John's cell, offering a hesitant smile in greeting as he asked, "Did Elizabeth come to see you?"

 

John didn't answer at first, just glared at the raw pink scar on Rodney's arm. "Why didn't you tell me?"

 

Rodney gave him a confused look before realization struck, and he waved his hands in an expansive "of course" gesture. "I'll take that as a yes," he answered himself dryly, crossing his arms over his chest.

 

"Why didn't you tell me?" John asked again, his voice taking on the undercurrent of a growl.

 

Rodney caught where John's eyes were fixed, and rubbed a hand over his arm self-consciously before making a concerted effort to drop his arms to his sides, badly faking casual. "It's nothing."

 

"Nothing?" John gave Rodney a narrow-eyed, sideways glare. "People are trying to _kill_ you, Rodney! That's not _nothing_!" he shouted. Rodney opened his mouth to reply but John cut him off. "Why didn't you tell me?" he demanded again, his volume echoing off the stone walls. If it was anyone else but Rodney, John knew his behavior would have brought the sting of a backhand across his face. But something inside John made him know he could talk to Rodney this way without risking retribution.

 

"Because I didn't think you'd care!" Rodney shouted back, the sudden outburst knocking John off track.

 

John stared at him a long time, knowing he couldn't keep the anger and hurt from his eyes, but trying to just the same. Then he said in a gravelly voice, "You were wrong."

 

Rodney's breath gave a tiny, almost imperceptible hitch. "Very few people have ever said that to me and walked away with their dignity intact." John assumed his words were meant to be cutting, but the way his voice got breathy gave John courage to say it again.

 

"You were wrong."

 

Rodney took a hesitant step forward and fixed him with a razor sharp look, his blue eyes openly curious and hopeful. "Does…Does that mean…?"

 

"Rodney," John said, his voice somewhere between a purr and a growl. Rodney's eyes went a little unfocused for a moment as he seemed to unconsciously move forward, and John felt like he could reel him in with just the heat of his gaze.

 

Before either of them fully realized it, Rodney was standing in front of John, eyes wide and unsure. "John?"

 

Rodney's warmth radiated through the small gap separating their bodies, and John could smell the light scent of oils on his skin. He knew what Rodney was asking, but as much as he wanted to give in, something was holding him back. He licked his lips and fought to contain his slightly ragged breathing, then asked, "Why did you come back? I thought it was too dangerous."

 

Rodney held his gaze, and John felt his skin thrum in time with the pulse of blood in his veins. "Don't play stupid. You know why." Rodney gently placed his hands against the stone on either side of John's shoulders, still carefully not touching him as he brought his face in close. He breathed a soft sigh that sounded like John's name, keeping his eyes opened and locked on John's as Rodney pushed forward. John felt a puff of breath against his mouth and saw Rodney close his eyes, and John mimicked the action almost simultaneously. Rodney's slightly parted lips barely touched John's, and then he froze. For several seconds they were still, holding their breath so that not even air passed between them, the feather-light touch the only point of contact. Then John slowly closed his mouth around Rodney's bottom lip, and Rodney followed suit. John had never expected surrender to feel this way, sweet and strong and just a little victorious. Their kiss stayed a careful, gentle exploration, heat pooling low in John's belly, until Rodney mumbled, "I thought you said you'd never—"

 

"I know what I said," John half-growled, then pressed his lips more determinedly against Rodney's. There was a soft needy noise that seemed to come from the back of Rodney's throat, and John thought it might be the best sound in the world. He felt Rodney press his mouth harder against John's as he covered the tiny distance between them. John felt the entire length of Rodney's body against his own, firm and hot and solid. John opened his mouth wide to allow Rodney's tongue inside, slick and demanding, and Rodney pressed his leg in between John's thighs. He grabbed John's shoulders and ground his hips down, proving he was already just as hard as John, and suddenly John wanted to touch so badly his skin burned with it. He pulled angrily at his restraints, making frustrated, grunting noises into Rodney's mouth. Still struggling, he thrust his hips against Rodney's thigh, and was rewarded with a sharp burst of pleasure so good that he realized he could do this, he could rub himself off against Rodney's thigh, he was that close.

 

Rodney seemed to know that John was near the edge, because he pressed his body harder against John's, plastering him to the wall and making further movement impossible. He rubbed his stubbled cheek against John's as he breathed hot against his ear. "God, John, I want—can I?" Not trusting his voice, John nodded as best he could with the strap around his throat. He had no idea what Rodney wanted, but he knew he'd give him whatever he asked.

 

Rodney sucked his earlobe gently, then moved his mouth down to his neck, running his tongue just under the edge of the leather strap, making John shiver. His hands released John's shoulders and came up to untie the strings holding the strap in place, and then the collar was shoved aside and Rodney planted his mouth against John's neck, sucking and licking everywhere the leather had touched. John closed his eyes and threw his head back, arching his neck and exposing more of his throat to Rodney's mouth, wanting, _needing_ Rodney to lick away the feeling of the leather against his skin.

 

Rodney worked his hands under the gaps on either side of John's tunic, skimming his broad palms down along John's ribs. John felt the weight of their touch as his chest rose and fell with each shuddering breath. Rodney hesitated a moment when he reached the rope around John's hips, and then slightly shaky fingers began to untie the knot. He lifted John's tunic up and over his head, then froze, his fingers lightly touching John's bicep. He stood motionless as he looked at John, and John watched Rodney's gaze travel over his body, trying to imagine how he looked in Rodney's eyes. His skin broken occasionally by the old, long-faded scars of a life hard-lived, eyes dark, lips wet and swollen, his body covered with a fine sheen of sweat that glistened in the torchlight. Rodney's focus travel the length of the new, vivid pink scar running down his side and curving to stop just below his navel, then saw Rodney lick his lips as he took in the sight of John's hard cock, flushed red and wet at the tip.

 

John let him look for a while, then twisted his wrists impatiently. "This is a hands-on activity, Rodney," he growled lightly.

 

He felt the fingers that had been resting gently against his bicep tighten around his upper arm. Rodney brought his other hand up and ran light fingertips along John's healing scar. It wasn't the erotic touch John had been hoping for, but it made his skin tingle all the same. Rodney looked up to meet John's eyes with a frown, and John tried to say, "I'm fine," or, "It doesn't matter," or even, "It hurt like hell," but somehow the words never made it past his throat. Rodney leaned in to kiss him, lips harsh and desperate, like he was trying to reassure himself that John was really here with him, that he was whole and healed. John, now freed of the strap around his neck, was able to push back, kissing Rodney with lips and teeth and tongue, soft breathy moans giving Rodney the reassurance he needed.

 

Rodney trailed sloppy kisses down John's neck and chest, sucking on patches of worn skin, running his fingers through the dark hair covering John's stomach. He circled a nipple with his tongue and John arched his spine, blindly pulling at his restraints. John was half-mad with the need to touch when Rodney moved on to the scar at John's side, pressing tender kisses all along its path and listening to John's soft grunts of pleasure. By the time he reached John's stomach he was on his knees, warm hands wrapped around John's hips, teeth grazing along the tender flesh until he reached John's navel. He licked carefully around the edge before plunging his tongue inside, and John let out a sharp, needy cry, begging without words. He was breathing like he couldn't get enough air in his lungs and his muscles were shuddering. His knees threatened to buckle, and his cock was impossibly hard and throbbing with the need for release. Rodney's fingers followed the trail of dark hair drifting down from John's navel, grazing John's shaft. He had barely wrapped his mouth around the head before John came so hard he nearly blacked out. A few short thrusts into Rodney's mouth and he was completely wrung out, collapsing in an ungainly heap to the floor. The chains kept his wrists and ankles secure against the wall, having just enough give that he landed in an awkward squat, his arms hanging limply over his head and Rodney's hand warm against his skin where he'd attempted to catch John as he fell.

 

John did a quick mental check to make sure he was still breathing and his heart hadn't stopped, then opened his eyes to blink hazily at Rodney, who was kneeling before him. "Hey," John smiled.

 

Rodney's eye-roll did little to curb his smug amusement. "Would it have killed you to give me some warning?"

 

"Sorry," John said, though he was anything but. "It's, uh…" He tried to make an expressive hand gesture, but his loose limbs combined with the restraints thwarted the motion. "It's been a while," he explained. "I guess I was a little…"

 

"Don't apologize," Rodney commanded, still unbearably smug. "It was a huge stroke for my ego."

 

John snorted. "You're ego doesn't need any stroking." With a meaningful glance to Rodney's obvious erection, he raised an eyebrow and smirked. "Other parts, however…"

 

"What?" Rodney asked, then looked down at his lap like he'd completely forgotten about his own cock in all the festivities, and that thought made John grin a little goofily. "Oh, that. You don't have to—I mean, obviously, I don't expect—"

 

"Rodney," John said. "Stand up."

 

Rodney blinked at him for a second, then leaned close and gave him a swift kiss that let John taste the faint hint of his own come. "Yeah?"

 

"Yeah," John breathed, voice low and husky.

 

"Yeah. Okay." As Rodney stood, John struggled into a kneeling position. The chains were too short for his wrists and ankles to move further than a few inches away from the wall, so he was forced to plant the soles of his feet against the cold stone and rock forward onto his knees. The position made his arms pull back and his chest thrust forward, but he found if he spread his legs wide it eased some of the tension in his arms and shoulders. He looked up to find himself tantalizingly close to Rodney's cloth-covered erection, and he licked his lips in anticipation. He couldn't stand it anymore, and he closed his mouth over the shape of Rodney's cock, warm, wet mouth meeting cool cotton. Rodney gave a low, surprised groan and John twisted his arms behind him desperately. He wanted to grab Rodney's hips, to shove the edge of the cloth up over Rodney's stomach so he could get at the flesh underneath, to slide his hands over Rodney's ass and pull him into his mouth, hard and fast.

 

John's saliva had just started to soak into the cloth when Rodney pulled back, muttered, "Oh, god, wait, wait," and then hiked the edge of his toga up to his chest. John instantly took the head of Rodney's cock in his mouth again and ran his tongue over the hot skin, savoring the taste. He moaned as he took more of the shaft into his mouth, feeling the solid weight on his tongue. Rodney gave a full body shudder, clutching John's shoulder with one scrabbling hand. He gave a long, drawn out moan that sounded like John's name, and John groaned around his cock and slid his mouth down nearly to the base.

 

John hollowed out his cheeks as he sucked his way slowly back up the shaft, working his tongue along the underside and giving a little hum of pleasure when he reached the tip. Rodney's held him tighter and John let out a needy grunt, then shoved his mouth back down the length of the shaft, rough and sudden, before pulling back again just as slowly as before. He repeated the process for a few more strokes, until Rodney's breath was coming in harsh gasps, and then he pulled off and buried his face in the crease of Rodney's thigh.

 

He took a moment to just breathe in Rodney's scent, then gently sucked one of his balls into his mouth, rolling it around his tongue. Rodney gasped sharply and his fingers gripped John hard enough to bruise. John craned his neck until he could touch his tongue to the back of Rodney's balls, then licked a wet stripe all the way up, continuing along the underside of Rodney's cock until he reached the tip. He sucked gently on the head, dipping his tongue into the slit. Rodney's knees almost buckled, and he caught himself on John's shoulder, muttering a soft curse under his breath. John fought not to grin smugly around Rodney's cock, instead sucking his cheeks in around the head and looking up at Rodney with half-lidded eyes.

 

Rodney's eyes went dark as the night sky and he froze, as if hanging on the edge of a precipice. After several long moments, John gave a little encouraging suck and Rodney responded with a stuttering thrust into his mouth, moaning a quiet, "Oh, god." John moaned his own reply around Rodney's cock, opening up his throat muscles. That was apparently all the permission Rodney needed as he began thrusting into John's mouth, slow and careful, his hand migrating from John's shoulder to cup the back of his neck. John let him guide their rhythm, listening to his litany of, "Oh, god yes," and "Oh, John," until their pace soon crescendoed, the heat building between them until Rodney came with a few rough thrusts into John's mouth, his come spilling over John's tongue. John swallowed it down with a quiet, satisfied sigh, licking Rodney's softening cock clean before Rodney fell to his knees with a completely blissed out expression. 

 

Rodney enveloped John's body with his own, latching slack limbs around John's torso and burying his face in John's neck, shuddering breaths ghosting against warm skin. John felt a pang of something heavy in his chest when he tugged faintly at the chains on his wrists in an effort to return the embrace. Instead, the closest thing he could manage was to rest his cheek against Rodney's temple and memorize his scent.

 

They stayed like that for several moments, until Rodney's breathing evened out enough for him to mumble, "If I were fifteen years younger, we would definitely be doing that again, right now."

 

John snorted his laughter into Rodney's hair, then said, "Tomorrow, Rodney."

 

Rodney groaned into his shoulder and said, "You're going to be the death of me, I just know it."

 

"But what a way to go," John grinned.

 

Rodney pulled back to give John the kind of glare that only Rodney could pull off in a post-coital haze, then leaned in to kiss him, slow and dirty. Rodney broke the kiss and rested his forehead against John's, then said with an almost resigned sigh, "Right. Tomorrow."

 

"Tomorrow," John repeated, and for the first time in a year he found hope in the word.

 

After Rodney helped him stand again and dressed him, fingertips lingering on his skin, he gave John a brief kiss and left for the night. The guards came in later to release John from his bonds, looking at him askance when they noticed the leather collar was off. John just gave them a contented smirk in response, which made their expressions even more worried. It wasn't until they'd left and John was lying on his pallet, drifting into satisfied sleep, that he remembered what else tomorrow would bring.

 

Though the Pythian John had killed had been to prevent his own death, he had done so without the thumbs down approval of the Emperor. John was set to receive five lashes for the infraction when he had recovered from his injuries, and the surgeon had pronounced him healed earlier that day. Tomorrow was the day he would receive his punishment.

 

Suddenly cold, John curled up and focused on the memory of how Rodney's body had felt against him, surprisingly strong arms wrapped around John like he couldn't bear to let go, and he drifted off into reluctant sleep.

 

 ~#~

[Part 3  
](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/6802.html#cutid1)


	3. Morituri te Salutant (3/5)

  
  
  
  
  


**Entry tags:**

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[fic: morituri te salutant](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/tag/fic%3A%20morituri%20te%20salutant), [genre: angst](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/tag/genre%3A%20angst), [genre: au](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/tag/genre%3A%20au), [genre: drama](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/tag/genre%3A%20drama), [genre: romance](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/tag/genre%3A%20romance), [pairing: mcshep](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/tag/pairing%3A%20mcshep), [rating: nc-17](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/tag/rating%3A%20nc-17)  
  
  
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**Morituri te Salutant (3/5)**   
_

  
**Title**: Morituri te Salutant

  
**Author**: Ras Elased

  
**Rating**: NC-17   
**Pairing**: McShep, Sheppard/OMC  
**Warnings**: Bondage, slavery, non-SGA character death, mention of off screen SGA recurring character death, not-so-cuddly-animal death, lots of John-whumpage. Maybe some weird variation of Stockholm Syndrome thrown in for good measure.

  
**Summary**: _"John had been born a slave under Emperor Vespasian, and had spent most of his life building the __Amphitheatrum Flavium the Emporer had commissioned. It seemed ironic that now he was held prisoner inside the walls he'd helped construct, forced to fight for the amusement of the Roman citizens he hated so much."_  


John is a gladiator in Ancient Rome, and Rodney is a Roman Senator who falls in love with him after he sees him fight in the Colosseum.

[Author's notes and acknowledgements](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/6029.html#cutid2)   
[Helpful information about Roman culture](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/6029.html#cutid3)

[Part 1](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/6240.html#cutid1)  [Part 2](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/6591.html#cutid1)

~#~

 

_John ran a hand roughly through his wet hair, shaking his head and sending water droplets raining down on the man sitting in front of him. Damien tilted his head back against John's chest to look up at him, then said, "Huh, so that's how you get your hair to look like that." John just rolled his eyes and brushed a few damp curls from Damien's forehead, then leaned over to press a wet smack of a kiss to his temple. Damien smiled and settled further into the space between John's legs, his back pressed snugly to John's chest, his head resting against John's shoulder. _

 

_Their tunics were laid out in the sun to dry after their rather impromptu swim in the river. Damien's mischievous side had once again gotten the better of John, and he'd surprised him by shoving John into the freezing water. Damien had laughed and run away when John came stomping up the bank, soaked and dripping, but John had acted angry enough that eventually Damien came close to apologize, and that's when John tossed him over his shoulder and threw him in. What followed was a whirlwind of water wrestling and seeing who could jump from the highest outcropping, and John was sure he'd never laughed so much in his life. They'd eventually grown tired and set their soaked tunics on the nearest sunny rock, then collapsed against a willow by the bank, feeling their water-cooled skin warm where they touched._

 

_Damien turned his head to kiss John's jaw, an effective distraction as he hooked his arm backwards and placed a small white flower behind John's ear. John removed it and glared at Damien, who blinked back innocently and said, "What? I think it makes you look cute." John scrunched his eyebrows in annoyance and placed it behind Damien's ear, who made no attempt to remove it. "You're no fun," Damien pouted, but his voice was amused._

 

_John ran his hands down Damien's arms to clasp each hand in his own, placing a soft peck against his neck. "Well then you're probably not going to like what I have to say, but I think we need to head back." Damien sighed and pressed back against John's chest in protest. "Damien, you know I'm right. We've been gone for too long, and I can't get caught just lying around when I should be working. We could both be sold, or worse."_

 

_"They'll never sell us, John. Quit worrying."_

 

_John pressed his face to the back of Damien's neck and let out a frustrated sigh. Damien wasn't much younger than John, but he'd lived on the same farm his entire life under a master who was pretty hands off when it came to dealing with his slaves. He preferred to leave it to the labor masters, who tended to be sympathetic to their fellow slaves. But the most recent holder of that title, Matthias, was not, and that had John worried. Sometimes he forgot that Damien didn't know how cruel the world could be._

 

_"We need to get back, Damien," John said, this time more firm. "I won't be sold again. I'll lose you."_

 

_Damien rolled his eyes. "You won't lose me."_

 

_John went very still, then placed one hand against Damien's cheek, turning his face to look in John's eyes. "Don't make promises you can't keep," he said, more harshly than he meant to. Damien blinked and opened his mouth, but John kissed him before he could say it again._

 

John was roused from his dream as the guards entered his cell. One carried a long length of rope, and the other a leather whip. They had him bound and gagged before he was even fully awake, the grey, pre-dawn haze filtering through his tiny window. As soon as John realized what was happening, his heart began hammering in his chest and he kicked out blindly against the hands holding him down. Lashings always made John panic, ever since his last day on the wheat plantation, the day he'd been sent to live in this tiny corner of hell.

 

The guards stripped John of his tunic and hung him by the wrists from a hook in the center of his cell, and he tensed as the guard with the whip moved to stand behind him. He looked up at his bound wrists and had a flash of his final memory of Damien, could smell the blood mixing with fresh cut wheat in the thick summer air. Damien's wrists had been the first thing John had noticed about him, slender, strong, and golden. John loved to brush his thumb across the inside tendon, to feel the soft skin against his own rough calluses.

 

John had come back from the fields one hot afternoon, aching and sweaty, to find Damien's body hanging limp from the whipping post, ropes still binding his wrists. His broken skin was shiny with blood in the bright summer sunlight, blood pooled at his feet, vivid red lash marks covering his back and thighs. The bushel of wheat stalks had fallen from John's shoulders, hitting the ground with a soft thud that John never heard. He would find out later that Damien had been caught sleeping in the fields, and Matthias had wanted to make an example of him, but at that moment 'why' was the farthest thing from John's mind. He still couldn't remember where he'd gotten the knife, but he remembered cutting Matthias' throat, then using the same knife to cut the ropes binding Damien's wrists, raw and bloody where the flesh had been torn as he struggled against the bonds. He was still numbly cradling Damien's body to his chest when the legionnaires came to drag him away.

 

The Tribune had demanded an explanation, but John was still too full of rage to unclench his jaw. He never said a word as the Tribune sentenced him to fight in the games for the rest of his life, and he hadn't spoken after that until Rodney came into his life. It was blind rage now that kept him from crying out with each lash stroke, and by the fifth and final strike his own blood filled his mouth, having bitten the inside of his cheek to keep from screaming despite the gag.

 

When they let him down and removed the gag and cuffs, his wrists were pink and slightly raw, but he refused to rub them in comfort. He didn't bother to put his tunic back on, just walked on shaky legs to his pallet, where he collapsed face down and naked, exhaustion taking him. He absently noted the soft tickle of blood as it trailed down the skin of his back, knowing it would be dry and caked by the time he woke up.

 

The familiar sound of the door lock roused him, reluctantly peeling his eyelids back to find it had become night. Despite the pain in his back, he smiled to himself when he heard Rodney's voice. "What the hell did you do to him?"

 

The guards sounded baffled. "It was just a standard lashing. He killed his opponent without the Emperor's approval."

 

"What?" Rodney sputtered in indignation. "But that Pythian was going to kill him anyway! It's not like he even—" there was a pause in which John could swear he felt Rodney's eyes on him, then, "Never mind. Just get me a basin of water and a clean cloth." When they failed to move fast enough to meet with his approval, Rodney snapped his fingers impatiently. "Sometime today would be nice!" They scurried away, and John smiled into his arms. He had to admire a man who could intimidate three burly soldiers with his mere presence. "I swear, I work for the stupidest system of government in the world," he muttered.

 

Groaning, John mumbled, "No argument here."

 

"You're awake?"

 

"Kind of hard to sleep with you yelling at everybody," he commented wryly, turning his head to look up at Rodney through the bars of his cell. He found Rodney's eyes roving down the lash marks of his back, and John was suddenly reminded that his tunic was half way across the room. Rodney's perusal of his naked body was brief, but when their eyes met John saw the heat of fury and lust, and he had to take a moment to catch his breath. In his entire life, nobody had ever looked at John like they wanted to protect him.

 

They stayed frozen like that until the guards returned with a white cotton cloth, a small brown bowl, and a pitcher of water. Rodney took them as another guard unlocked the cell and walked over to John, who steeled himself for the inevitable. Even so, he still hissed in pain as the guard took him gingerly by the shoulders.

 

"Stop! What are you doing?" Rodney shouted.

 

John's back screamed in protest as he struggled to get his weight onto his elbows. "They have to lock me up before I can see you, Rodney."

 

"I don't care! It's not like you'd hurt me!" Rodney answered, his voice carrying the note of confidence it always held when he knew something to be absolutely true.

 

"But I could," John spat back with just as much truth in his tone. He'd done it before, snapped men's necks so fast he doubted they'd even had a chance to fully register the thumb down gesture from the Emperor. The fact that he would never hurt Rodney didn't make him any less dangerous. As much as he wanted to, he couldn't fault the guards for wanting to protect Rodney.

 

"Am I the only person who's noticed that your back is ripped open and _bleeding_?" His voice cracked slightly on the last word. "Stop being so stupid and noble!"

 

John almost laughed at that. He didn't want to be put into the restraints any more than Rodney apparently wanted to see John in them, but he knew the guards wouldn't let Rodney in unless they were sure he was safe, and John disliked the idea of not seeing Rodney even more than being put in the restraints. He wanted Rodney next to him, wanted to feel the heat radiating off his body, wanted to be touched… "Fine, I have an idea," he decided, holding out his wrists in front of him, still lying on his belly, groaning as the motion pulled at the muscles of his shoulders and back. The guard seemed to get it, and he withdrew a short leather rope from a hook on his belt. 

 

"Stop it," Rodney's voice shook with outrage. John wasn't sure if the command was directed at himself or at the guard. Either way, it didn't matter, because the guard wrapped the rope tight around his still tender wrists, and John blinked away the image of Damien's wrists, cut and bloody and raw. The guard looped the other end of the rope through one of the cuffs that normally held John's ankles, and John gave an involuntary tug at the restraints, hating the feeling of powerlessness that always swept over him whenever he was tied down.

 

Satisfied that he was secure, the guards left and Rodney kneeled at his side, glaring at the rope in a way that made it clear what he was thinking. "Don't," John warned. He had no idea what the guards would do if they came in to find John untied.

 

Rodney shot him a rueful glare, then muttered something that sounded a lot like, "stupid and noble," before setting down the bowl and cloth. He squeezed some of the water from the cloth before he carefully draped it over John's back. He tensed slightly at the initial sting, but then felt the coolness of the water gradually soothe the pain. After the water had moistened most of the blood caking John's back, Rodney rewet the cloth and began to slowly work at cleaning his wounds. John craned his neck to watch Rodney work, face as tense as his hands were gentle, but it still stung as the cloth scratched over each open gash, each unconscious flinch making John's wrists pull at the ropes. He felt Rodney's fingers lightly trace the marks left by previous lashings, white scars under livid red cuts, and John felt the sudden need to ease Rodney's concerned frown. "It's not as bad as it looks." _I've had worse_, he added silently. Rodney just grunted in response, and John was amazed by his ability to sound sarcastic without even forming words.

 

Rodney continued to drag the cool, wet cloth over his skin long after the blood had been wiped away. John relaxed, feeling the water droplets running down his skin, taking with them the dust and sweat of the arena, the stain of life in a cell. Rodney methodically cleaned every inch of skin he could reach, from between John's fingers to the cracked soles of his feet. John suspected Rodney hated the way this place clung to John's skin as much as John did. When he had finished, he placed the now dusty and blood-soaked cloth back into the pink-grey water and lay down close to John, still frowning intensely. He let the backs of his fingers settle against the skin of John's hip, so casual that John almost believed it was an accident. "What the hell did you do to deserve this?" he muttered, practically to himself, his tone implying he meant more than just the lash marks. John's felt his expression darken at the memory of how Matthias had choked on his own blood, making soft gurgling sounds as he died, and how it surprisingly hadn't made John feel any better. "Right, so, not talking about it then," Rodney agreed, correctly reading his closed off expression, and John relaxed a bit, focusing on the tiny patch of skin where Rodney was touching him. After several long moments, Rodney got a look of wary determination in his eyes. "I'm getting you out of here," he said.

 

John blinked at him. "What, right now?" he quirked an eyebrow upwards, then rested his chin on his bicep. "Well, okay, but you'll have to be the one to fight our way past the thirty armed guards with muscles the size of your head, since I'm not really in top fighting condition."

 

Rodney looked like he was barely holding back the urge to smack him. "Have you even been listening to me for the last month? I'm the single most brilliant man in the Roman Empire! Obviously my plan would be a little more complicated than running around, bashing people's skulls in. That's your department."

 

John's voice lowered in disbelief. "_Do_ you have a plan?"

 

Rodney looked suddenly uncomfortable. "I'm…working on it."

 

The swelling in John's chest was equal parts admiration and panic, and it made his hands fist around the coil of rope between his fingers. Rodney would risk his life to break John out, he was sure of it, but he couldn't stand the thought of putting Rodney in danger. He already had enough people trying to kill him, for god's sake! He didn't need to go looking for trouble. "Rodney," he said, trying to control the waver in his voice. "Don't. Whatever it is, just…don't. I'm fine here, I—"

 

"Yes, I can see that," he spat, throwing a hateful glance at John's back.

 

"Rodney!" he growled. "Don't. I can—" He stopped himself, letting his head drop forward between his outstretched arms, trying to relax his grip on the restraints. He should have known this could only end badly, this whole thing. He needed to end it now, before Rodney did something stupid and got himself killed. "You've got to stop coming to see me."

 

"Shut up!" Rodney snapped, leaning over to kiss John harshly. "God, just…shut up," he mumbled into John's mouth, one hand cupping the back of his head so he couldn't turn away. John made no move to pull back, just devoured Rodney's words with equal intensity. "Ask me anything," he continued, "Whatever you want. Just not that."

 

John moaned low in his throat at Rodney's words. There was so much he wanted. He wanted to spend all night learning every inch of Rodney's skin. He wanted to live the rest of his life without being more than two steps away from Rodney's touch. He wanted Rodney to fuck him, to make love to him, to strip away everything else that made up his sorry excuse for a life. Rodney broke the kiss, pulling back to look in his face. "John?" He was waiting for an answer.

 

John closed his eyes, buried his face between his arms, because it was easier that way. "Undress for me," he breathed, voice so quiet he wondered if Rodney could even hear it. There was a pause so long that John was sure he hadn't, and then Rodney shifted away from him. John turned to see Rodney undoing the gold clasp at the shoulder of his toga, but he didn't meet John's eyes. The clothing was shoved off easily, and John took in the sight of Rodney's body spread out before him, naked and bare. Everything about Rodney was strong and solid. Broad shoulders and hairy chest, pert nipples, the slight fullness of his middle that spoke of a life lived without worrying about getting enough to eat, and his thick cock flushed and hard. His skin reminded John of the marble used to build the great temples, and he wanted to touch so badly he ached. He tugged at his restraints before he'd even realized it, and when Rodney looked up, John knew Rodney could see fire in his eyes.

 

Some of Rodney's hesitancy vanished at that look, and he shifted close to John again, resting one hand on John's hip and pressing soft, lingering kisses from the inside of John's elbow up along his bicep. When he reached the apex of John's shoulder, he leaned in closer and captured John's mouth with his, cradling John's face in one hand to adjust for the awkward angle.

 

His cock nudged at John's side, and the hand on his hip trailed down to cup his ass at the same time as his tongue licked gently past John's lips. John opened wide and sucked Rodney's tongue into his mouth, making small needy noises that seemed to rise up from the base of his spine. Rodney's fingertips grazed along the back of his leg to the inside of his thigh, then dragged the lightest of touches along the cleft of his ass. John's hips stuttered forward and he moaned into Rodney's mouth, so Rodney did it again, this time pressing harder and dragging his fingers along John's entrance.

 

John ripped his mouth away from Rodney's in a shuddering gasp, gripping at his restraints with white knuckles while he tried to get his breathing under control. It had been so long, and it felt so good, and he wanted it so much. But Rodney drew back sharply, leaving John cold and shaking. "Sorry! Sorry, I…" he rushed through a hasty apology, seemingly afraid John's reaction had been due to the twinge of his lash marks. "God, we shouldn't do this. I mean, obviously, I want—but your back, you shouldn't—"

 

John let out a noise somewhere between a growl and a whine. "We're doing this, Rodney." Early in his life, John had learned to tolerate pain as a survival skill. Still, he had received enough lashings to know it would hurt like hell to be with Rodney like this, to feel his muscles stretch and flex and burn in agony as their bodies moved together. He also knew it would hurt worse if John let Rodney pull away. "We're doing this," he said again, surprised by his own desperate tone. "Please." Rodney just watched him for a long minute, searching John's face for something he would have gladly given, if he'd only known what Rodney wanted. Then he smiled and kissed John's shoulder lightly, his touch gentle, and moved down the length of John's outstretched body. He settled between John's legs, gently nudging his thighs apart. John didn't need much encouragement.

 

He cupped John's ass from behind, then leaned over a placed a wet kiss at the top of the cleft. John hissed like he'd been burned, so turned on he could barely stand it. His cock was hard against the soft straw of his pallet, and when Rodney grazed his teeth lightly over the spot he'd just licked John's hips gave a tiny thrust forward, seeking the friction. Rodney's hands on his hips stilled the motion, and he silently guided John to his knees. The muscles of his back protested, but John shoved the pain aside as he settled his face into the crook of his elbows.

 

Rodney fit his broad, solid hands over John's slim hips, and he sucked on a patch of skin where John's ass met the back of his thighs. A moan barely more than a whisper escaped his lips, and then Rodney was trailing sloppy kisses back up to his tailbone. He paused, then used his thumbs to spread John wide and pressed the flat of his tongue just past the top of John's crack, licking a slow path upwards. John began shuddering like he was going to fly apart as Rodney inched his way slowly towards John's entrance. When the tip of Rodney's tongue lapped at his opening, John was sure he'd stopped breathing, and then Rodney licked one hot stripe from the back of John's balls up along the entire crease of John's ass, and he was pretty positive he blacked out for a second. The next thing he knew Rodney's tongue was plunging inside him, licking and teasing and spearing him open, hot and wet and almost more than John could take. 

Rodney pulled back and ran his thumb over John's saliva soaked entrance, pushing down gently. The tip of his thumb slipped inside and John moaned like he'd just found the key to Elysium, long and low and loud enough for the guards outside to hear. "Shh," Rodney soothed, but his voice carried a smug quality. "We're not in the arena, you don't need to perform."

 

"Can't help it," John panted into his elbows. "So good," he mumbled, belatedly realizing that Rodney had moved away from him and was sifting through the clothing he'd discarded earlier. John was about to ask him what the hell he was doing or possibly demand he come back and finish what he'd started, when Rodney pulled a small bottle of oil from one of the folds, a triumphant look in his eye. John couldn't help giving him an indulgent smirk. "So, you came prepared."

 

Rodney frowned at him. "Well," he said defensively, "after last night, you can hardly blame me for being a little hopeful."

 

"Trust me, not complaining," John said, his voice taking on a gravelly tone as he imagined the feel of Rodney's oil slick fingers inside him, of his thick cock gliding in and out with each thrust.

 

John's tone seemed to snap Rodney back to the task at hand, and he made his way back to his place between John's thighs. He placed one hand on the back of John's leg, thumb brushing gently over the skin there as the other smeared oil over his entrance. John's hips bucked and his back was on fire, but it was so good he didn't care. Rodney's hand moved to John's hip, gripping tightly and holding him still. The tip of one finger slipped inside, and John bit the inside of his own arm to stop the moan that threatened to escape. He gripped at his ropes and shoved back at the same time Rodney shoved forward, feeling Rodney's finger sink in to the last knuckle. He let out a shuddering, breathy moan as he felt himself relaxing around Rodney's finger, and then Rodney began moving torturously slow, in and out and holding John in a bruising grip, preventing him from just impaling himself on Rodney's digit.

 

"More," John moaned, and a second finger joined the first without breaking rhythm. John's breathing stuttered and Rodney planted a gentle nip on the soft skin where John's thigh met his groin, making him yelp in surprise and pleasure. Rodney licked the spot he'd just bitten and scissored his fingers inside John, barely grazing his prostate, and John's elbows nearly buckled. "God, Rodney, _please_…"

 

"Okay, yeah, okay," he answered, and John heard the soft sound of flesh on flesh as he slicked up his cock. He bit his lip, expecting to feel the blunt tip press its way inside him, but then Rodney was at his side, instructing him with his hands to sit up off his elbows. John was too far gone to protest so he complied, and then Rodney was lying down with his back on the pallet, pulling one of John's thighs across his body so that John was straddling him and _oh god_, it was_ so fucking perfect_. Now John could see Rodney as he fucked him, could be seen getting fucked, could kiss him and suck on those nipples he'd been wanting to lick so badly. John didn't have to lean over far to plant his elbows on either side of Rodney's head, kissing him and shoving his tongue into that warm, wet mouth as Rodney guided himself to John's entrance. He felt the pressure against his ass and he couldn't hold back, didn't know if he'd ever be able to hold anything back ever again, and shoved himself down onto Rodney's rock hard cock. His back arched sharply in utter bliss, making his lash marks erupt in sharp fire and maybe a little fresh blood, and he strained against his ropes.

 

When John came down from the initial burst of sensation, he noticed Rodney was gripping his thighs hard enough to leave marks, his head thrown back and his breath coming in short gasps. John smiled, his chest swelling at the thought that he did that, _he_ made Rodney look like that. With his arms still stretched out in front of him, John wrapped his hands around the rope and pulled, using it as a counterbalance to steady his weight as he slowly raised and lowered himself along Rodney's length. Rodney gasped and arched and bucked up against him, occasionally letting out small keening moans, and he was so gorgeous John couldn't look away. He clenched his muscles rhythmically around Rodney's cock, speeding up his movements, feeling his thighs quiver under Rodney's palms. One of Rodney's hands released its grip and wrapped around John's cock, getting one stroke down the shaft before John said firmly, "No." Rodney released him as if scalded, but John continued, "Not yet. I want you to come for me first."  

 

Rodney groaned and gave a small nod, but John slowed his tempo, just to prove the point that he was in control. A few seconds later, Rodney let out a sound somewhere between frustration and animalistic want. He reached up and grabbed John's forearms, pulling him forward so both of their arms were stretched over their heads, chests smashed together and John's throbbing cock pressed against Rodney's stomach. Rodney leaned up and kissed him, mouth latching on to John's and sucking greedily, finesse lost to the passion of his need. John wrenched his mouth away and licked sloppy kisses down Rodney's throat and chest, finally running his tongue over a pink nipple. Rodney cried out and arched up into him, releasing John's arms so he could thread his fingers through his hair as he dragged John's face back up to his, shoving his slick tongue into John's mouth over and over again. John let him, savoring the feeling of Rodney coming undone, then gave a roll of his hips that had Rodney shuddering beneath him. "John, I need…I need…"

 

"I know," John said, sitting up slightly to adjust his angle. He felt like he was seeing starbursts every time he thrust his hips downward, and he knew he wouldn't last much longer, was amazed he'd lasted this long in the first place. He set a bruising pace, feeling his heart beat frantically in time with each movement of his hips. He looked down at Rodney, swollen pink lips wet and full, blue eyes darkened with lust, and John thought it was the most amazing thing he'd ever seen. Rodney arched and gave a few wild thrusts up into John, shutting his eyes tight and opening his mouth wide as he came. John was tied up, beaten, and locked in a cell where he was sentenced to die, but at that moment he felt more powerful than the Emperor of Rome.

 

John continued to guide Rodney through the aftershocks, waiting until he saw some of the clarity coming back into his bright blue eyes. "Now," he commanded, and thank god Rodney knew what he meant. John felt the pressure build as Rodney touched him, like melted steel was running through his veins. He was so close he came after a few short strokes, coating Rodney's stomach and chest with stripes of semen. John instantly collapsed into the mess, his body trembling against Rodney's, the rope pulling roughly against his wrists.

 

Rodney's thumbs traced lazy patterns against John's hipbones as he struggled to get his breathing to even out. "That was…I…You were…We…"

 

John snorted into Rodney's collarbone, his own breath coming in harsh pants. "I hope I didn't break you. I don't know what the punishment is for rendering a Senator speechless." He smirked. "Although, in your case they might actually throw a parade in my honor."

 

Rodney pinched his ass, _hard_, still obviously unable to string together enough words to render a sufficiently cutting remark. John didn't move, didn't even flinch, just mumbled a halfhearted and very belated, "Ow," into Rodney's neck. Rodney moved his hands to either side of John's head, threading through his hair and guiding their mouths back together. Their lips brushed against each other slowly, loose and relaxed and just a little uncoordinated. The tips of their tongues met occasionally, sending sparks to John's belly that didn't quite start a fire, but created a nice, warm glow. Eventually John pulled back to yawn, and he winced as every single muscle in his back voiced a deafening protest.

 

Rodney frowned in sympathy. "I should go, before you injure yourself further," he said, but made no motion to move.

 

After a moment, he leaned up to give John another slow kiss, but John spoke before their lips met. "I have a fight tomorrow." John felt the effect his words had on Rodney, his body tensing underneath him.

 

Rodney looked at him with sharp eyes. "But…you're hurt. You said it yourself, you're in no condition to fight."

 

John shrugged, then clenched his jaw as he realized what a colossal mistake the motion was. He hoped Rodney didn't notice, but his expression told him he had. "I've had worse and worked in the fields the next day. This isn't any different," he soothed, hoping Rodney bought it. 

 

"Yes it is. You can't die in the fields," Rodney snapped, sliding out from underneath John's body. John rolled to his side and gave his back a dark, stricken look as Rodney angrily grabbed the still damp cloth from its bowl. He kneeled down next to John and began methodically cleaning the mess from his chest and stomach, not meeting John's eyes.

 

"It's not like I have a choice, Rodney," he said, a bit sharply, after Rodney had rinsed the cloth and wiped down his own skin.

 

"I know," he replied, pulling on his discarded clothing.

 

John watched him get dressed, the silence thick between them. John tugged angrily at the rope on his wrists, suddenly wanting to touch Rodney's arm, his face, his shoulder, anything that would make Rodney look at him. "Don't be like this. There's nothing I can do!" he growled in frustration.

 

"Yes there is," Rodney answered just as fiercely. John opened his mouth to argue, but suddenly Rodney wrapped one hand under his jaw and tilted his head sharply upwards, silencing him with a fast, searing kiss. He pulled back but kept his hand on his jaw firm, looking at John with blazing blue eyes. "Don't die," he said.

 

John held his gaze and swallowed hard. "I don't make promises I can't keep."

 

Rodney narrowed his eyes and fixed John with an expression he'd only seen when Rodney talked about something particularly stupid someone else had done. "It wasn't a request," he said, then turned on his heel and walked out of John's cell without so much as a backwards glance. John watched him go, a half smile forming on his face. Rodney wasn't angry at John, he was angry at Rome, and if there was one thing John knew about Rodney it was to pity anyone or anything that got in the path of his anger.

 

~#~

 

[Part 4](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/7119.html#cutid1)

  



	4. Morituri te Salutant (4/5)

_   
**Morituri te Salutant (4/5)**   
_

  


  
**Title**: Morituri te Salutant

  
**Author**: Ras Elased

  
**Rating**: NC-17   
**Pairing**: McShep, Sheppard/OMC  
**Warnings**: Bondage, slavery, non-SGA character death, mention of off screen SGA recurring character death, not-so-cuddly-animal death, lots of John-whumpage. Maybe some weird variation of Stockholm Syndrome thrown in for good measure.

  
**Summary**: _"John had been born a slave under Emperor Vespasian, and had spent most of his life building the __Amphitheatrum Flavium the Emporer had commissioned. It seemed ironic that now he was held prisoner inside the walls he'd helped construct, forced to fight for the amusement of the Roman citizens he hated so much."_  


John is a gladiator in Ancient Rome, and Rodney is a Roman Senator who falls in love with him after he sees him fight in the Colosseum.

[Author's notes and acknowledgements](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/6029.html#cutid2)   
[Helpful information about Roman culture](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/6029.html#cutid3)

[Part 1](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/6240.html#cutid1)  [Part 2](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/6591.html#cutid1) [Part 3](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/6802.html#cutid1)

~#~

 

When John awoke the next morning from a blessedly dreamless sleep, he made the mistake of attempting to sit up without bracing himself for the pain. He bit back a groan as he pushed himself to a seated position, the dull throbbing of his back making his movements stiff and careful. The pain wasn't debilitating, but it was a blunt ache that pulsed sharply as he put on the tunic he'd abandoned last night, the linen scratching lightly along his wounds. Yet John couldn't help the slightly goofy grin that spread across his face when he felt the faint, residual tingle in his ass, which overshadowed any pain he might be feeling. He idly wondered if when he walked out into the arena this afternoon, wide grin plastered on his face, all of Rome would be able to tell that he had gotten _spectacularly_ laid last night. 

 

John was smiling, still lost in the sense memories, when he heard the sound of the lock on the antechamber door. There was a tiny moment of shock, because Rodney had never visited him _before_ a fight, but then John cast it off and stood, steadfast and stoic and decidedly _not_ bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. The guards locked him in his restraints and when John heard heavy footfalls approach from the corridor, he drawled, "Not that I'm not flattered, Rodney, but you know I have a fight today, so I need to save my strength. We can't—"

 

John's words died in his throat as an unfamiliar figure loomed into view. "This will only take a few moments, I assure you," the man said, his voice quiet and dignified but carrying an undertone that made John's heart seize in recognition. He'd had enough masters with that voice that he could easily identify the tone of concealed evil and lust for power it carried. 

 

The man was dressed in the everyday armor of a high ranking general, a leather breastplate, dark wool cloak, and a hand resting on the hilt of the short sword at his left side. His face was scarred and pock-marked, and his eyes were dark with something John knew had become eerily familiar in his own, the black look of a man who had killed in cold blood. "You're Kolya," he said with finality, fighting down the blind rage boiling in his chest. He was face to face with the man who'd been trying to kill Rodney, but there was nothing he could do while chained to the wall.

 

"I see my reputation precedes me." Kolya gave John a regal nod and a reserved half-smile that never met his eyes. "McKay has no doubt told you all about me."

 

John affected a thoughtful frown. "Not really," he tossed out carelessly, managing a weak one-shouldered shrug against his restraints. It was basically the truth, and there was no way in hell John would give Kolya the satisfaction of thinking Rodney considered him a threat.

 

This time Kolya's smile did reach his eyes, obviously enjoying John's defiance. "Well, that's unfortunate, since I know quite a bit about you. For instance, your name is John Sheppard, named after your father's occupation before being taken as slaves during a small village uprising. Your parents were lucky to have survived the massacre." John struggled to keep his expression carefully blank, clenching his jaw as Kolya continued to rattle off the long-buried details of John's life in a detached, businesslike tone. "Your mother was killed by her master under suspicious circumstances, and your father was sold shortly thereafter. You were nine years old. You spent most of your life being shuffled from one master to another, learning a variety of skills along the way, but eventually you were deemed too wild and unpredictable for work in the city. You ended up at a wheat plantation to the north of Rome, where you met another slave." John's heartbeat thumped in his chest, his fists tight and shaking. "He was also brutally murdered, but you returned the favor on the man who killed him. And then you ended up here, the plaything of a Senator who wouldn't know real power if it was handed to him on a silver platter," he finished disdainfully, the first sign of real emotion he'd seen from the man. John knew his eyes were blazing with fury and suspicion, and Kolya picked up on it easily. "My spy network is a bit more extensive than McKay's," he explained quietly, his voice almost sympathetic, as if talking to a child. It made John want to crush his windpipe.

 

"What do you want?" John snapped. "You can't kill me."

 

Kolya grinned. "I see you know the laws. Yes, there's a hefty fine for destroying the Emperor's property, but I'm willing to pay it. Although if you do as I say, you won't need to die, and we could both benefit. All you have to do is kill Senator McKay."

 

John blinked at him for a moment, then erupted into rueful laughter. With a lazy eye roll he replied, "_Never_ happen."

 

Kolya nodded and idly adjusted his ring on his right hand. John caught a brief flash of the gold, looping design.  "I thought you might say that. Perhaps all you need is the right incentive." On the final word, Kolya dealt him a swift backhand, the force of the blow knocking his skull against the wall and making him see stars. John felt the barest trickle of blood, and he knew that the ring had left a sharp gash across his cheekbone.

 

John licked his lips and blinked away the black at the edges of his vision. "Okay, first of all, _ow_. And second of all, I don't think we have the same definition of _incentive_!"

 

"No, perhaps not," Kolya responded coolly. Examining his ring, he polished it lightly with his cloak before placing it in a pouch on his belt. "Would you consider your freedom and the antidote more in line with your definition?"

 

John's brows furrowed. "Antidote?"

 

"To the poison I just introduced into your bloodstream," he answered, indicating the gash on John's cheek. "And before you nobly volunteer to sacrifice yourself for McKay, I should tell you that Elizabeth has already received the same poison, and I doubt you'll volunteer someone else's life as readily as your own. Once I get confirmation of McKay's death, you'll both receive the antidote." 

 

"You _son of a bitch_!" John shouted, struggling against his bonds in an effort to lash out, to wrap his hands around Kolya's throat and just squeeze. "I'm going to kill you!"

 

"No you won't," Kolya replied, "You're a practical man, Sheppard, or you wouldn't have survived this long in the games. You've killed other men in the arena, good men, _innocent_ men, in order to survive. That's all I'm asking you to do here. You know there are only two ways this can end. Either you refuse to kill McKay, you and Elizabeth die and I'll just figure out a way to kill McKay later, or you kill McKay, you and Elizabeth live and you gain your freedom." He paused and gave John a patronizing frown. "Sometimes sacrifices must be made. I trust you'll make the right decision." John screwed his face up in frustration and rage, but said nothing. Kolya apparently took it to be assent, and nodded. He approached John, withdrawing a small vial of sulfurous smelling liquid and pouring it onto the joint holding the chains to the wall. "This will slowly weaken the metal. By the time you return from your fight, you should be able to break your restraints with only a few hard pulls. There will be a knife and a set of keys under your pallet. Once McKay is dead, you can use them to slip out before the body is discovered. I'll have one of my men waiting to administer the antidote."

 

John's fists were clenched so tight he could feel his nails digging into the tendons of his palms. "When I get out of here, I'm going to kill you with my bare hands."

 

Kolya chuckled. "You wouldn't be the first to try." With a superior grin, he exited John's cell, cloak sweeping grandly behind him.

 

It wasn't long after that the guards came to prepare John for his fight. John suited up on autopilot, hands shaking with barely repressed rage as he strapped on his armor, mind numb and frantic with cold, black fury. As he stepped out into the arena, he blinked against the sunlight, feeling the familiar rush of adrenaline as he listened to the roar of the crowd, smelled the earth and old blood baking in the sun. Oddly, the arena had become a place of comfort to John in the last year. It was the one place that John could take his life in his own hands, instead of hanging on by the balance of his master's mercy. In this place, he was the master. His own mind, muscles and strength determined his fate.

 

But now, with Kolya's poison pumping through his veins, even that had been taken away. John had never felt more powerless.

 

He strode as casually as he could into the center of the arena, not willing to show his opponent any weakness. It took a moment for John to realize that there was no contending gladiator entering from the other side of the arena, and he got a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. No human opponent could only mean one thing.

 

Emperor Trajan gave the signal to begin, and John recognized the rattle of cages being opened behind him. He whipped his head around in time to see the entrance of two tigers, one white, one orange, each barreling towards him at truly terrifying speeds.

 

John's shield deflected the first strike, a swipe from a broad paw that jarred his arm in its socket and knocked him off balance. He rolled with the fall, stumbling to his feet as the tigers prowled towards him, growling. The orange one attacked again, and John barely managed to duck away, feeling the rush of wind from its outstretched paw. John swiped at it with his sword, and then the other one struck him in the side with enough force to rattle his ribcage. The massive animal sent him crashing to the ground, face smashed into the dirt as sharp claws ripped apart the leather armor, grazing the soft flesh of his belly. John took a moment to be thankful that the armor protected him, keeping the scratches shallow instead of eviscerating him. He looked up to see bared fangs rapidly descending, and he heaved his shield at its head. He caught the edge on its jaw and quickly followed up with a strike of his sword. He was rewarded by an inhuman howl as the blade sliced a deep gauge into its side, blood staining the orange fur. It stumbled away just as John heard a furious roar from his other side, and he saw nothing but a blur of white and black before it was crushing him under its weight, the still raw lash marks erupting in fresh pain as he crashed to the ground.

 

It took John a moment to realize he wasn't being mauled to death. The tiger above him wasn't even moving. Then he felt the sticky, warm wetness running down his arms, soaking through the gaps in his armor, and he realized that he'd managed to raise his sword in time for the tiger to fall on it as it pounced.

 

The crowd was silent for a moment, holding its breath to see if John was still alive. Suddenly feeling claustrophobic under the dead animal's weight, John heaved his way out from under its body, hastily retrieving his bloodstained sword. The crowd erupted in cheers at the sight of John, alive and coated in red. John peripherally noticed the tiger's blue eyes, dead and cold, as he dazedly prepared himself for an attack from the second tiger.

 

But that attack never came. Blood still oozing from its wound, the animal just limped over to the dead tiger's body, pawing at it gently. When it got no response, it quietly lay down next to it and made no move to get up. John had a moment of startling clarity. These animals were mates.

 

After several moments without action, the crowd began to get restless. The trainers emerged from the sidelines, whips in hand, preparing to goad the tiger into an attack. In a flurry of movement John was at its side, catching that first whip crack around his forearm, feeling it bite into his skin. He yanked the whip out of the trainer's hands, watching as he stumbled back off into the shadows.

 

Warily, John knelt next to the tiger's prone body. His short, labored breaths matched John's own, and John could feel the poison flowing through his veins. When he looked into the tiger's eyes, he saw something eerily familiar there: sadness, and defeat, like a light had been snuffed out. Gingerly, he ran a shaking hand over the orange fur, but the tiger didn't stir. It was surprisingly soft.

 

"I know," he whispered, his voice a low, comforting murmur. The crowd stayed silent, as if straining to hear. "I understand. I do. I'm sorry." Steeling himself, he raised his sword and plunged it expertly between the tiger's ribs, straight into his heart. John stood, blood already pooling at his feet. Tossing his sword away in disgust, John headed out of the still silent arena. He knew what he had to do.

 

~#~

 

John was already in his restraints when the guards came to lock him up. They exchanged wary looks, and John stood impassively as they checked to make sure he was secure. Then Rodney barreled around the corner with just as much ferocity as the tigers had in the arena, and John had to blink away the image.

 

"Are you _trying_ to kill me?" Rodney shouted, and John felt his throat close up. Rodney continued on with his tirade, oblivious. "Every time you make me think you're dead I nearly have a heart attack. It's wreaking havoc on my nerves!"

 

"Rodney," John choked out weakly, making Rodney pause.

 

"Are you alright? Are you hurt? You don't look so good." The words came out in one quick rush of breath, and then Rodney was gently running his hands over John's body, checking for injuries.

 

"Rodney, I'm fine, please just…" He looked up with wide blue eyes locked on John's, and John tried not to think of the way the light had gone out in the tiger's eyes. "Rodney...I need you to promise me something. If anything ever happens to me—"

 

"It won't! You said you're fine! You're—"

 

"Rodney! Just shut the hell up and listen to me for a second! If something happens to me, don't cut yourself off. Don't just roll over and…You find someone else, understand? Someone…someone who makes you happy. Promise me that."

 

"John, I can't—"

 

"Promise me!"

 

Rodney held John's face in his hands for a long time. He swallowed hard, then said, "Okay." His frown deepened, and he asked shakily, "John, what's going on?"

 

John just closed his eyes and grimaced with the effort of holding back. He wanted to tell Rodney that he was dying, could feel the strength sapping from his limbs with each passing second. He wanted Rodney to hold him for whatever time he had left, to press soft kisses into his hair and bleed warmth into his skin, but he knew it wouldn't be enough. Kolya would still be alive, and that meant Rodney would still be in danger.

 

John knew he had one shot at this, and if Rodney knew he'd try to stop him. He opened his eyes to find Rodney's concerned face inches from his own, and he breathed, "Kiss me." Rodney obeyed without hesitation. John put everything he had into the kiss, his lips speaking without words, pouring into Rodney all his pain, his anger, his hopes and his regrets. He held nothing back. He didn't want it to end, because he knew it would probably be his last chance to have this, and he wanted to hold it tight in his arms and never let go. Instead, he whispered into Rodney's mouth, "I'm sorry." Then he yanked his arm away from the wall, breaking the weakened chains, and brought the metal cuff of his wrist down on top of Rodney's head with a sickening thud.

 

John's other hand came up to catch Rodney's body as he went limp, cradling his unconscious bulk close to his chest. He took one selfish moment to breathe in the scent of Rodney's skin, then lowered him gently to the ground. When he drew his hand away from the back of Rodney's head, his fingertips were tinged with blood. John choked back the bile that rose in his throat.

 

Clutching at the shallow scratches left by the tiger's claws, John went to his straw pallet. He lifted up the corner to find the knife and keys waiting, just like Kolya had said. He slid the knife into the rope around his waist, then grabbed the keys and stumbled to his cell door, threading his arms through the bars to get at the lock. He couldn't say he was surprised when none of them worked.

 

Cursing, John threw the keys against the wall of his cell. Of course Kolya wouldn't want him to escape. If he had killed Rodney as he'd been told—and John fought down another wave of bile at the thought—then the guards would have killed him as soon as they discovered him in his cell, trapped with the body. One dead assassin, and no witnesses to link Kolya to the murder.

 

Abruptly, John felt his stomach churn. He barely made it to the corner of his cell before he emptied the meager contents of his stomach, vomiting until there was nothing but dry heaves left. John would have liked to think that his insides were roiling in anger and fury, but he knew it simply meant he didn't have much time. Kolya's poison was working its way through his body, and he had to get out of this cell.

 

Sweaty and shaking, John glanced at Rodney's still form, then stood and made his way on wobbly legs to the wall where his restraints were located, taking up his position like he was still bound by the chains. He grasped the hilt of his knife and tucked the flat of the blade against his forearm, out of view. "Guard," he called weakly. When he got no answer, he tried again, forcing the air out of weakened lungs. "Guard! I need help in here!"

 

The moment the soldier came around the corner and spotted Rodney lying on the floor, he rushed to John's door to open the lock. Figuring John was safely restrained, he knelt down to check Rodney, and that's when John put the knife to his throat. "I don't want to kill you, but I will if I have to."

 

He stripped the guard of his keys and his uniform, changing out of his own bloodstained tunic and donning the disguise. Then he gagged the guard and used his own rope to bind his wrists and hang him from the hook in the center of John's cell, unwilling to leave Rodney alone and vulnerable with a man that could potentially be one of Kolya's spies. With one last, lingering kiss to Rodney's forehead, John was out the door, heart hammering in his chest as he made his way past the guards.

 

John had gained enough popularity in the games that he was easily recognizable, but luckily the legionnaire's helmet concealed most of his face. Still, John fought the urge to duck his head each time he passed another guard, not breathing a sigh of relief until he was out in the sunlight and safely hidden in an alcove down the street from the Colosseum. That sigh quickly turned into another retching fit of dry heaves, and John sank to his knees as his stomach clenched in agony.

 

When it passed, John rested his sweaty, clammy skin against the cool stone wall. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on moving air in and out of his lungs instead of the persistent buzzing in his head. He nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt a heavy hand drop to his shoulder.

 

John turned sharply and sprung to his feet, instincts kicking in before he could register what was happening. When his gaze landed on a concerned face behind a legionnaire's helmet, John had just enough presence of mind to stop the punch he was intending. "Hey, are you all right? You have too much wine last night?" The man's teasing smile fell just short of genuine. He was hiding something.

 

"I'm fine," John insisted, trying his best not to sway where he stood.

 

"No, you're not," the soldier replied. "You look terrible. Come on, let's get you taken care of." John tried to protest, to think of a reasonable excuse, but the hand on his arm was firm. The soldier guided John farther into the alley, and John had one brief moment to wonder why that felt wrong before the soldier reached for the knife at his belt.

 

This time, John didn't hold back on his instincts. He shoved the man into the wall, twisting his arm behind his back until he heard a sharp cry and the crack of bone as the knife clattered to the stone beneath their feet. That's when he saw the ring. It was the same looping pattern Kolya had worn. "You're one of Kolya's men," he growled, voice dripping with disgust. "He sent you to finish the job, didn't he? In case I escaped." The soldier didn't answer, but John didn't need him to. He cried out sharply when John twisted his broken wrist painfully against his back. John was still weak from the poison, but he drew strength from his rage. He hauled the man up then slammed him into the wall, smashing his face hard against the stone. "Where is Kolya?" he snarled.

 

When he still got no answer, he unsheathed his own knife and spun the soldier around, pressing the edge of his blade against the man's throat hard enough to draw a thin trickle of blood. "I'm not going to be happy if I have to ask again."

 

The man swallowed, and the movement brought forth a thicker trail of blood. "I…I'll take you," he finally gasped.

 

They walked stoically through the streets of Rome, the shields they carried hiding the way John was clasping the man's broken wrist to keep him from escaping. He kept his hand poised where he felt the jagged separation of bone. John was getting weaker by the minute, his nausea coming in sharp waves that barely left him enough time to duck into a secluded alley before the vomiting started. He dug his thumb into the swollen purple flesh of his tour guide's broken wrist so he wouldn't run off while they were both doubled over in sharp white pain. John alternated between hot and cold, his skin felt like nails were being driven into every inch of it, and his head was buzzing with the noise of his unfocused thoughts. Still, the legionnaire's uniforms gave them some form of leeway. Most people ducked out of their path when they saw them coming, either out of respect or fear, John couldn't tell.

 

When they finally reached Kolya's villa, John and his companion slipped quietly past the guards, though John had to employ a few persuasive techniques to keep the other man silent. Once inside, John noticed that the house was vast, but utilitarian. It didn't take long to locate the room his was looking for, but what he found there was a shock.

 

The place had been ransacked. Drawers had been emptied, shelves cleared, books and papers that looked like coded lists littered the floor. John hazarded a glance at the man beside him, but he looked just as puzzled as John. That didn't exactly help his mood. Grinding the broken bones in a white-knuckled fist, John once again pressed his knife to the man's throat. "I thought you said this is where he keeps his poisons!"

 

"It is!" came the strangled, wide-eyed reply. John held his gaze for a moment, then cursed and kicked the papers at his feet. The action made his head throb, and he fought the urge to just curl up into a ball and moan.

 

Clearly, he wouldn't be able to find the antidote in this mess, if it had ever been there in the first place. After a few moments of thought, John said, "Where are Kolya's personal rooms?"

 

He was guided to another wing, and it only took John a few seconds of searching to find what he was looking for. There was a small brown leather pouch sitting on the table in Kolya's dressing room, and he recognized it immediately. It was the same pouch he'd been wearing on his belt earlier that day, the one he'd hidden the ring inside. John picked it up gingerly, noting it was a little too heavy to contain only a ring. He dumped the contents onto the table, and immediately found what he'd come for. Along with the gold ring there was a small vial of amber-colored liquid. John knew it had to be the antidote. There was no way a practical man like Kolya, whose job employed calculating and strategizing for risks, would walk around with poison in his pocket and no means to cure himself if he accidentally got a scratch.

 

John heard a surprised noise from his captive and turned, then suddenly felt the tip of a knife under his chin. "I'll take that."

 

John recognized the man at once: crazy dreadlocked hair and dead set, dark eyes. Elizabeth's body guard. Well, that at least explained the ransacked room, and the soldier currently lying face down in a pool of his own blood.

 

A dark hand appeared in front of his face, palm up, and the knifepoint dug in a little deeper under his chin. "Hey, buddy, uh," John threw up his hands and tried to remember what Elizabeth had called him. "Ronon, right? We're on the same side."

 

Ronon's expression didn't change. "Why are you here?"

 

John searched Ronon's face, then decided to just tell the truth. "To get Kolya. He poisoned me too." Well, mostly the truth.

 

"There's only enough in that vial for one person," Ronon pointed out in his deep bass rumble. The insistent tip of the knife let John know exactly who Ronon thought should receive the vial.

 

"I know," John answered, then carefully handed it over to Ronon. "That's why you need to take this to Elizabeth."

 

John got a little nervous when Ronon didn't move the knife from under his jaw. Instead, Ronon held his gaze for a long time, obviously trying to come to a decision on whether or not to just slit John's throat. Finally, he dropped the knife. "What about you?"

 

John let out the breath he'd been holding, trying to ignore how shaky he felt and how his knees were threatening to buckle under his own weight. "I'm going to stay here and wait for Kolya."

 

Ronon frowned slightly. "If you don't see a doctor soon, you'll—"

 

"I know." John clenched his jaw against another wave of nausea. "But this is my only chance."

 

Ronon gave him another hard, searching look, then nodded. "I'll take care of McKay."

 

John dropped his gaze to the floor and felt some of the tension in his chest dissipate. He was relieved, knowing that Rodney would have someone looking after him when John was gone. He managed to collect himself enough to raise his head, but he saw Ronon had gone before he could nod his thanks.

 

John headed towards the chair in the darkest corner of the room, and he caught sight of himself in Kolya's mirror. His face was pale, his hair matted to his head with a thick layer of cold sweat, and there were angry red lines beginning to spider out from the cut on his cheek. His eyes looked sunken and grey, but they still held the brightness of fury. Sinking his weakened body into the chair, he settled in to wait. His insides felt like someone was slashing at them with a knife, and his heart and head were hammering an offbeat, staccato rhythm. It was a relief when he started drifting in and out of consciousness.

 

John had one hazy moment as he drifted back to himself, wondering where he was and why he felt like his blood was boiling in his skull. Then he realized what had awoken him, and he stared as Kolya moved casually about the still dark room.

 

His back was to John, but it was clear the moment he became aware of the second presence in the room. Kolya tensed, but didn't turn. "I would have expected you to be long gone, Sheppard. Your job is done, and you've obviously found the antidote by now. What's keeping you here?"

 

John tightened his grip on the arms of the chair, but didn't rise. He was afraid he would be too weak to stand. "Unfinished business," he replied.

 

Kolya chuckled. "Unfinished business," he repeated, sounding both amused and pleased. "I've underestimated you, Sheppard. Such loyalty, even in death…Under different circumstances, you would have made an excellent legionnaire." Kolya turned, and his voice was so sincere it made something cold twist in John's gut.

 

"What did you do?" he asked.

 

Kolya blinked. "Nothing, I assure you. McKay's body will be given all the rites afforded to him by his station. And seeing as how McKay's estate holdings were recently depleted, I may even contribute to the funerary costs. If nothing else, a generous donation in McKay's name will help clear me of any lingering suspicions." He nodded, then unsheathed his sword. "You've served me well, Sheppard, and I would have let you live if you hadn't shown up here."

 

But John didn't hear his words. He was too lost in the thought that Rodney was dead. No, he couldn't be. He was alive when John had left him in that cell. He hadn't hit Rodney that hard, had he? Had the guard gotten loose and killed Rodney while John had left him there, alone and unprotected? John had a sudden flash of Rodney in the cell, the guard's hands wrapped around Rodney's throat as he steadily choked off his air supply. Rodney was scrabbling at his hands, angry, helpless tears welling up in his eyes as his face turned first red, then purple, then blue, just before his eyes rolled back into his head and his body went limp.

 

With a wild yell, John launched himself at Kolya. John had surprise on his side, but Kolya deflected him easily. Though not before John got a shaking hand Kolya's knife and slipped it from his belt. He leaned heavily against the wall where Kolya had shoved him, chest heaving for breath. Just that small amount of movement had left him feeling as drained as fighting all day in the arena.

 

John allowed himself a small reprieve, then quickly grabbed Kolya's mirror and threw it, using the distraction to launch another attack. He managed to get a good slice at Kolya's arm with the knife. He recoiled, fat droplets of blood smattering the floor before John caught an elbow to the side of his face. The force of the blow had him sprawled face down on the floor, and John had barely tried to stand before he felt the now familiar blinding agony of his gut. He vomited blood and bile until he was choking on air. In a very far off corner of his mind, he registered that that probably wasn't a good sign before he heard Kolya say, "I thought you'd taken the antidote. I didn't realize…You must be in a great deal of pain. Frankly, I'm surprised you're even still alive." Kolya was looming over him, sword in hand, but John's arms shook as he tried and failed to push himself up. Instead, he focused on the trickle of blood running down Kolya's sword from the cut on his arm. "In that case, I'll give you the honor a strong warrior deserves. Your death will be quick." His voice was reverent, almost respectful, as he raised his sword in both hands and prepared to deliver the killing blow.

 

John's foot lashed out, catching Kolya by the knees and taking him down. The back of his head fell to the ground with a heavy thud, stunning him. John crawled to Kolya's body and pinned him with his weight, grabbing his sword arm with both hands and beating it against the ground. Kolya finally released his grip, then delivered a punch to John's chin that left him reeling. He recovered to see Kolya had rolled, reaching for the sword, and John made a weak lunge to stop him. One arm wrapped viciously around Kolya's neck from behind as John choked him, crushing his throat. Kolya thrashed and clawed at John's arm, leaving deep red scratches in his skin, but he just held tighter. With the last of his strength, John wrenched his arm sideways, twisting until he heard the crunching snap of Kolya's spine.

 

The thrashing stopped, and John rolled away, curling up into a ball on his side. Blackness danced at the edges of his vision. He thought weakly, _I'm sorry, Rodney. I just wanted to protect you. I'm so sorry. _Then the blackness took him.

 

~#~

 

  
[Part 5  
](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/7412.html#cutid1)   



	5. Morituri te Salutant (5/5)

  
  
  
  
  


**Entry tags:**

| 

  
[fic: morituri te salutant](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/tag/fic%3A%20morituri%20te%20salutant), [genre: angst](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/tag/genre%3A%20angst), [genre: au](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/tag/genre%3A%20au), [genre: drama](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/tag/genre%3A%20drama), [genre: romance](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/tag/genre%3A%20romance), [pairing: mcshep](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/tag/pairing%3A%20mcshep), [rating: nc-17](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/tag/rating%3A%20nc-17)  
  
  
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**Morituri te Salutant (5/5)**   
_

  
**Title**: Morituri te Salutant

  
**Author**: Ras Elased

  
**Rating**: NC-17   
**Pairing**: McShep, Sheppard/OMC  
**Warnings**: Bondage, slavery, non-SGA character death, mention of off screen SGA recurring character death, not-so-cuddly-animal death, lots of John-whumpage. Maybe some weird variation of Stockholm Syndrome thrown in for good measure.

  
**Summary**: _"John had been born a slave under Emperor Vespasian, and had spent most of his life building the __Amphitheatrum Flavium the Emporer had commissioned. It seemed ironic that now he was held prisoner inside the walls he'd helped construct, forced to fight for the amusement of the Roman citizens he hated so much."_  


John is a gladiator in Ancient Rome, and Rodney is a Roman Senator who falls in love with him after he sees him fight in the Colosseum.

[Author's notes and acknowledgements](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/6029.html#cutid2)   
[Helpful information about Roman culture](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/6029.html#cutid3)

[Part 1](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/6240.html#cutid1)  [Part 2](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/6591.html#cutid1) [Part 3](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/6802.html#cutid1) [Part 4](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/7119.html#cutid1)

  


~#~

 

The first thing John was aware of was warmth. It was gentle, and soft, and comforting. He wanted to melt into it, boneless and grateful. Instead, his consciousness tugged him further awake. Before he opened his eyes, he felt the warm sheets wrapped around his lower body. He recognized the feeling of sunlight falling in a bright stripe across his bare chest, lighting his skin with its heat. The first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was Rodney's sleeping face, backlit by the light streaming in through the open window, creating a gold-orange halo around his head. A gentle breeze ruffled his hair, making the light shimmer, and bringing with it the earthy, clean scent of the outdoors. John's hand was clasped loosely in Rodney's, tucked under the pillow beneath the other man's head.

 

John's breath didn't hitch. His heart didn't start pounding in his chest. He just looked at Rodney, peaceful and drooling slightly onto his pillow, and thought, _Is this Elysium? It can't be. I wasn't supposed to end up here._  


 

He was still quietly watching Rodney when his eyes slowly blinked open, bright blue and just a little hazy. Rodney offered him a sleepy smile, and said, "Hey."

 

John smiled back. "Hey," he answered, voice cracking over the word. Rodney's smile instantly vanished as he came fully alert.

 

"Oh my god, you're awake," Rodney sat up abruptly and reached across John to grab a small cup, spewing forth lightning-fast questions. "Are you okay? Where does it hurt? Aside from the obvious, of course. Here, drink this," he said, helping John into a seated position and pressing the cup to his lips.

 

He cringed as the movement made John realize his joints and muscles were stiff and tender, and his lash marks had faded to a dull ache, just this side of painful. The water Rodney gave him was cool and bitter as it soothed his dry throat, probably some sort of medicine. John drank as much as he could before he asked, "Rodney, what the hell happened? I thought you were…I thought I was…"

 

"I know," Rodney said, taking John's face in his hands. "And if you ever do anything that stupid again, I'll kill you myself."

 

John held his gaze for a long time, then whispered. "I killed Kolya. He told me you were dead, I…He poisoned me. The last thing I remember was, I…I should be dead."

 

"Yes, well, all I have to say is you're damned lucky I'm so brilliant. I figured out where you'd gone the moment I woke up—well, mostly. I didn't know about the poison." He swallowed hard. "Anyway, I sent a rescue party after you. I also sent a few guards to spread the word that I had been killed in the cell, because I figured if Kolya thought you'd done what he asked, he wouldn't…" He cleared his throat. "The point is, despite your continued penchant to idiotically fall on your sword, there was at least a half a dose of antidote left over after Elizabeth, and the rest of the poison was leached out of your system—using herbs and tonics, not actual leeches. Though they did want to try that, but obviously I wouldn't let them near you with those things," he added with a shudder.

 

John grimaced. "Thanks," he said, then quieter, "And, you know, not just for keeping the leeches off me." There was a long pause, and then John spoke his next words past the lump in his throat. "But I can't stay here."

 

"What?" Rodney sputtered. John carefully didn't look at Rodney, afraid he might change his mind and stay.

 

"Rodney, I killed a general of the Roman Army! I'm a _criminal_. It's too dangerous for me to stick around. Eventually, they _will_ find me, and then—" John stopped abruptly, not wanting to even think about what they'd do to Rodney when they found him hiding out under Rodney's protection, much less speak the words. "I have to leave."

 

Rodney just rolled his eyes, then settled John with a look that clearly said John was a moron, and should just stop speaking already. "You really think I didn't consider that? It's taken care of," he said, waving a dismissive hand. "The guards found the body of the dead guard near Kolya's, and determined the guard killed Kolya then himself. They're not even looking for you! And even if you wanted to leave," he crossed his arms defiantly, "you can't. At least…not for a year. That's how long I have to keep you in my house before I can legally free you."

 

John's breath froze in his chest as the implications sunk in. "Rodney…did you buy me?"

 

His eyes skittered away from John's. "Um, well…technically? Yes. And it's not like you were exactly cheap, either. I finally got together enough money to pay your selling price to that pathetic drunk monkey of an Emperor yesterday morning. I was about to break the news when you bashed me over the head." Rodney gingerly laid a hand on his skull and offered up a mock scowl. John just gaped.

 

"Rodney, was…was that your plan? To rescue me?"

 

He huffed, suddenly defensive. "Look, maybe it didn't involve some sort of coordinated strike force of mercenaries or burning the Coliseum down in a blaze of pyrotechnics, but it got you out, didn't it? And it's only a year. So when you're free you can—" He stopped, and John realized that Rodney thought John would leave at the end of his year of service, like being bound to Rodney was something he had to escape. But John knew that he was in this for life, even if Rodney didn't realize it yet. Slave or not, he couldn't imagine giving this up after only a year. _When I'm free_, he thought giddily.

 

Ignoring the creaking of his joints, John let out a sharp, surprising bark of laughter and quickly grabbed Rodney's face, pulling him down into an enthusiastic, sloppy kiss. He wrapped his arms tight around Rodney's back, his hands shaking with relief and happiness so bright it made the summer sunlight streaming through the window pale in comparison. He couldn't stop his ridiculous grin as he whispered, laughing, into Rodney's mouth. "I'm not going anywhere, okay?"

 

Rodney smiled down at him. "Good. Because I apparently need a personal body guard, and you seem to have this unhealthy but really very commendable obsession with saving my ass."

 

John snorted and slid his hands down to cup the aforementioned ass, savoring the fact that without the damn restraints, he could touch as much of Rodney as he wanted. "What can I say? It's an ass worth saving." John smirked, giving him a squeeze. Rodney yelped.

 

Then they were kissing again, sweet and strong, grinning into each other's mouths. John wondered how the hell he could have been lying naked in bed with Rodney all this time and not have just reached out to pull them together the minute he was awake. He made up for it now, running his hands over every inch of Rodney's skin, back, shoulders, thighs, ass, everywhere he could reach. Rodney mouthed at the hollow of his throat, eyelashes fluttering against his pulse point. John arched his neck, his moan turning into happy, breathless laughter as it reached his throat. God, it had been so long since he'd let himself feel good enough to laugh.

 

Ignoring the protests of nearly every part of his body, John flipped Rodney onto his back, kicking away the sheets as they tangled around their legs. The uncoordinated flailing made their hard cocks brush together, and just that gentle touch had John arching his back and grinding his hips into Rodney's, feeling like his lungs were filled to bursting. Rodney cupped the back of his neck and pulled him into a kiss. John just panted into his mouth as Rodney licked his way inside, tasting each other's breath. John wanted to touch Rodney everywhere at once, needed to be engulfed by Rodney's touch, his taste, his scent. His skin burned with it.

 

Rodney teased his opening with the tip of a blunt finger, making John thrust backward, his gasp hot and moist against Rodney's cheek. God, he needed this. Needed to feel Rodney's cock buried inside his body, again, always, forever. "Rodney," he said, voice trapped somewhere between a whine and a moan.

 

"Yes, yes, just—" And then Rodney cradled him gently and rolled him onto his back, making his muscles twinge as he settled onto the not-quite-healed skin. John allowed Rodney to soothe him with tender kisses, then Rodney magically produced a bottle of oil from somewhere John couldn't see. He made a mental note to tease Rodney later about having it so handy, when he wasn't so turned on and grateful for Rodney's foresight, and he could mock him properly. And then one oil-slicked finger was pushed inside him, and John spread his legs as wide as they'd go and forgot all about it.

 

John's hands curled around Rodney's biceps when a second finger was added. His hips lifted off the bed when he felt a third. By the time Rodney lined up his slick, hard cock with John's entrance, he was making breathless, needy noises into Rodney's mouth. The feeling of Rodney finally sliding into him, slow and gentle, made him wonder if he'd found Elysium after all.

 

Rodney's strokes started out smooth and measured, their bodies gliding against each other, John's cock throbbing between them. Rodney's motions crescendoed and John wrapped his legs around his hips, his arms around his shoulders, holding on tight as Rodney wrenched shuddering moans of pleasure from his body. John offered himself up, allowing Rodney to take anything he wanted, everything he wanted. But Rodney just gave and gave and gave, until every touch was too much. John could hardly breathe his chest was so tight. His entire body shook, flooded with feelings that sent tremors up and down his spine. Rodney was breaking him open, filling him up, and then making him whole again.

 

John whimpered into Rodney's shoulder and curled his trembling body tighter around Rodney's, digging his fingernails into the skin of his back. "It's okay. I've got you," Rodney breathed into his neck, over and over as he stroked John through his release, lights exploding behind his eyes. John used his body to answer with a litany of _I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm yours_.

 

John kissed Rodney as he followed John over the edge, and Rodney tasted like sunlight and fresh green fields and wide open blue skies. They slept together that night, bodies folded around each other, and when John awoke the next morning, it was to the promise of freedom.

 

 

~fin~


	6. Gladiator!John AU update and art

_ **Gladiator!John AU update and art** _

For those of you who follow my personal journal, [](http://ras-elased.livejournal.com/profile)[**ras_elased**](http://ras-elased.livejournal.com/), I've been ranting and raving about this massive story I'm in the process of finalizing, which has taken over my brain. I posted some [manips](http://community.livejournal.com/mckay_sheppard/1417716.html#cutid1) on [](http://community.livejournal.com/mckay_sheppard/profile)[**mckay_sheppard**](http://community.livejournal.com/mckay_sheppard/)last week, and then today I posted this:

  
    


	7. More Gladiator!AU art...

  
  
  
  
  


**Current mood:**

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artistic  
  
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Cross-posted to [](http://ras-elased.livejournal.com/profile)[**ras_elased**](http://ras-elased.livejournal.com/) (Sometimes I really hate having to flock my personal journal.)

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**More Gladiator!AU art...**   
_

I had about a million things to do yesterday, but what did I do instead? I made more art for my gladiator AU, this time for the sequel. (Yes, I know I haven't posted the original story yet. Trust me, I'm working on it!) This is a few drawings, probably not safe for work or dial up.   


  


These drawings are actually for this description from the sequel:

In addition to the armor, he also wore a sword and knife at his belt, along with the other weapons Ronon had shown him how to conceal. He had one knife strapped to his back, under his armor, in a harness that had two leather loops that slipped over his shoulders. The other he wore under his tunic, strapped to his thigh. That was the one he also wore around the house, just to see Rodney's eyes go wide when he caught a flash of it under John's knee-length toga. And if he sometimes buckled it a little tighter than was strictly necessary, just to feel the leather taught against his skin…well, he tried not to analyze that too much.

    
John's naked back, using mechanical pencil. I mostly just included this because I think I did a good job on the shoulder blades and wanted to show them off.

  
John wearing his concealed weapons. Those knives are supposed to be in sheaths, but that didn't really come across in the drawing. Don't ask me how that knife sheath is attached. Um...it's magic!

  
And just the outline, inspired by the amazing drawings of [](http://pentapus.livejournal.com/profile)[**pentapus**](http://pentapus.livejournal.com/). Also, if anyone wants to, say, **color this in (pretty pretty please with sugar on top!)**, I promise to write you something special, whatever you want, and dance a happy little jig, and what the hell - I'll even throw in my first born, too. *g*

I haven't drawn anything in about three years, and for this I basically just traced a few different references and then shaded them in. I'm really not that good at drawing stuff freehand, as you can see from the knives I added. But I like the shading. ;)


	8. Fic: Morituri te Salutant (Author's notes and Index)

  
  
  
  
  


**Entry tags:**

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[fic: morituri te salutant](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/tag/fic%3A%20morituri%20te%20salutant), [genre: angst](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/tag/genre%3A%20angst), [genre: au](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/tag/genre%3A%20au), [genre: drama](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/tag/genre%3A%20drama), [genre: romance](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/tag/genre%3A%20romance), [pairing: mcshep](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/tag/pairing%3A%20mcshep), [rating: nc-17](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/tag/rating%3A%20nc-17)  
  
  
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**Fic: Morituri te Salutant (Author's notes and Index)**   
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**Title**: Morituri te Salutant

  
**Author**: Ras Elased

  
**Rating**: NC-17

  
**Pairing**: McShep, Sheppard/OMC

  
**Warnings**: Bondage, slavery, non-SGA character death, mention of off screen SGA recurring character death, not-so-cuddly-animal death, lots of John-whumpage. Maybe some weird variation of Stockholm Syndrome thrown in for good measure.

  
**  
Summary**: _"John had been born a slave under Emperor Vespasian, and had spent most of his life building the __Amphitheatrum Flavium the Emporer had commissioned. It seemed ironic that now he was held prisoner inside the walls he'd helped construct, forced to fight for the amusement of the Roman citizens he hated so much."_  


John is a gladiator in Ancient Rome, and Rodney is a Roman Senator who falls in love with him after he sees him fight in the Coliseum.

  
**  
Disclaimer**: Not mine, don't sue. I also don't own the Roman Empire, sadly.

  


  
**  
Author's** **notes**: How the hell did I get a 22,000 word long fic from a 112 word snippet??? *headdesk* This was originally inspired by snippet #5 of [](http://never-walk.livejournal.com/profile)[**never_walk**](http://never-walk.livejournal.com/)'s amazing story [Five Snippets Through Time](http://never-walk.livejournal.com/90659.html), (which I considered "canon" for this AU, though it isn't required reading, but you should still check it out anyway!) and was originally meant to be a short PWP piece to experiment with writing bondage/slavery kinks, but it ended up SO far away from that. (Note to self: 32 pages does not equal short!) Also, the tone is completely different from her original snippet. Stylistically, I chose to write this without making the language heavily "ancientized" because 1) it's hard for me to write that way, and 2) I think it's distracting to read that way.  
**  
Acknowledgements:** Huge thanks to [](http://beadattitude.livejournal.com/profile)[**beadattitude**](http://beadattitude.livejournal.com/) and [](http://spacebabe.livejournal.com/profile)[**spacebabe**](http://spacebabe.livejournal.com/) for their invaluable beta duties, and for putting up with the many and varied ways I have come up with to butcher the English language. You are both awesome x1000! And thanks to  [](http://general-jinjur.livejournal.com/profile)[**general_jinjur**](http://general-jinjur.livejournal.com/)for the title help!

For the artwork I've done to accompany this fic, I compiled the links into one [post](http://community.livejournal.com/sga_noticeboard/1430243.html) over on [](http://community.livejournal.com/sga_noticeboard/profile)[**sga_noticeboard**](http://community.livejournal.com/sga_noticeboard/)  


 

  


  
**Some random things I found out while researching culture of the ****Roman Empire**** that managed to make their way into the fic but might need a little extra explanation**:   
-"Morituri te Salutant" is Latin for "We who are about to die salute you!" which is how the gladiators saluted the Emperor before a fight.

-Senators wore special white togas with a stripe of purple along the edge.

-Roman slaves had their feet chalked to mark them as fit for sale at slave auctions.

-The _Amphitheatrum Flavium_ is the Latin name for the Coliseum.

-Pythia was a nation Emporer Trajan conquered, extending the Roman Empire as far East as it ever went. (As an aside, Trajan was considered one of the five "Good Emporers" despite the fact that he was an alcoholic and a pederast, and held the largest continuous gladiatorial festival, clocking in at 3 months and roughly 11,000 dead gladiators.)

-Nobody in Rome wore pants, or even underwear. They wore tunics tied at the waist (informal attire) or togas (formal attire). Usually tunics consisted of a front flap and a back flap, and were sewn together at the sides. I've left John's open at the sides for easy access and maximum skin exposure artistic purposes.

-And the Roman Senate was apparently just as corrupt as the American Senate, just with a lot more plotting of people's deaths.

-Also, gladiators, apparently, did not fight naked. (Damn it!) That was just in the Olympics.

-Oh, and the name Damien is Greek for "sweet and harmless." Alternate meanings include "source of angsty backstory" and "poor dead woobie" :-(

   
Index: [Part 1](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/6240.html#cutid1)  [Part 2](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/6591.html#cutid1) [Part 3](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/6802.html#cutid1) [Part 4](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/7119.html#cutid1) [Part 5](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/7412.html#cutid1)  



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